#I do have some Questions about the skeleton

[whetstonefires]

The trilobite crest of the Heterodynes really raises questions about the history of palaeontology in the setting.

Like, honestly, considering this is a world where autism gives you deeply unpleasant cognitive superpowers that are nevertheless constrained (to some extent) by your background knowledge, it would kind of make sense if a lot of the 'making lists' sorts of natural science were millennia ahead of our timeline. Because that's a science you can do without an industrial revolution behind you, right?

According to wikipedia the trilobite (wildly common as fossils go) first appears in the scientific literature in 1698 when

Rev. Edward Lhwyd published in 1698 in The Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society, the oldest scientific journal in the English language, part of his letter "Concerning Several Regularly Figured Stones Lately Found by Him", that was accompanied by a page of etchings of fossils.[118] One of his etchings depicted a trilobite he found near Llandeilo, probably on the grounds of Lord Dynefor's castle, he described as "the skeleton of some flat Fish".

A family with the antiquity and inflexibility of the Heterodynes is not going to have adopted their characteristic logo within the past 200 years. 200 years ago is like. Euphrosinia's day. They were already infamous on a massive scale. There is no way.

So does this suggest a classical discipline of palaeontology? Like. To do really useful paleontology you need a fairly systematic process, and I feel like if the scientific method had recognizably developed by the classical period this would have ended the 'wizard spark' era sooner than the Renaissance.

Or did the trilobite just not perish in the Permian mass extinction event and they still exist???

Also oh hey check it out, trilobites are apparently technically a Welsh discovery huh.

[crimsonender]

A small but important announcement/update

Hi guys. As you may have known about three months ago I got into a public argument with Youtuber and music creator Patricia Taxxon. It was messy and angry and there was a lot of interpersonal conflict and issues involved. I made two videos relating to this because I believed that Taxxon posed an active threat to vulnerable people.

My feelings, right now, are a lot more complicated. I have in hindsight, developed some nuance regarding the situation. I am not renouncing Jules Hyde, or his feelings regarding their interpersonal conflict. But, I think that is largely none of my business and did not warrant making a video that amounted to a a massive callout.

I do not think it was the right thing to do. This goes beyond what happened between myself and Orchard, someone who I approached as a critic that was examining her creative works and has proven over and over again to be callous, using thought-stopping techniques and regressive tactics to control her fans, beyond just having skeletons in her closet. Those skeletons are not what drew me to Orchard nor why I criticized her to begin with.

Taking this argument off of Tumblr and onto Youtube was my biggest mistake in all of this. However, this goes beyond that.

I tend to afford people a lot of grace, at least when they're my friends. I have afforded absolutely none of that grace to Taxxon.

I would also like to acknowledge, of the troubling actions she has taken, all of these happened when she was very young. A person I would still consider a kid. That doesn't mean those actions were okay, but it does mean she should be given a chance to heal and grow and hope that she will never do something like that again. To my knowledge there is no proof of any tangible wrongdoings since she was young, or at least, none of the contentious nature in which I discussed on my video.

I do not agree with many of Taxxon's opinions. I continue to maintain that you should have strict boundaries with anyone you meet on the internet, including your favourite Youtubers and Artists. I think some of the things she has said in the past and the present disturb and make me uncomfortable. I have been asking myself "does this warrant a Youtube stream calling her out and the fuss I kicked up?"

The answer I keep coming back to is "no." Being uncomfortable is not the same as being hurt. I don't have to like what she said. I can even argue against that rhetoric and idea. That is the nature of the internet. But what I did and what I attempted are far too close to "predator hunting" for me to continue to let it stand.

I have spoken to several people that were involved in my side of things and have alluded to these things to them in private. But for pretty much everyone this is the first time I am revealing this: I reached out to Taxxon for a private conversation, over Bluesky. (She has me blocked on tumblr, so this could be considered block evading.) She did not ask me to do this nor alluded that she wanted to do this. No one told me to do this. She is aware that I am making this post and I have discussed with her what actions will be taken in the future. I will not show you these messages, not in private, nor in public. If Taxxon chooses to do this, that is her choice and I respect it. I will trust that she won't take me out of context and will present my communication honestly. She has no reason not to. Please keep in mind this situation is still in development.

A few questions I anticipate people asking:

What now? Well, I have unlisted the original stream. The document I used for notes and screenshots will have two changes: I will be altering the text colours and background to be more readable, but will change none of the contents, besides this second change: A note at the top detailing my current stance, along with a link to this post. I will likely be unlisting or potentially privating the second stream I did, or cutting the section covering Taxxon out entirely. My decisions regarding the second video are mixed. The actions I take following all of this have not been strictly ironed out and are currently in development.

So are you and Jules not talking now? No. I also spoke to Jules about much of this. I don't really agree with or like how Taxxon treated Jules but again, this stemmed as a conflict between friends. I also think it is well within Jules right to want to distance himself and his film from Taxxon. I also understand where she's coming from. Largely I think the festival fee issue comes from a misunderstanding and breakdown of communication, and from Taxxon and Jules viewing the project and festival in very different ways from one another.

So do you think Taxxon is innocent? It really doesn't matter what I think. The testimony I heard was from an event that happened back when Taxxon was a kid. To my knowledge, there are no other proven real "victims" of Taxxon. I think she should learn better boundaries and start age gating some of her hornier videos but I don't think that constitutes as ontologically evil in the way I was presenting her.

What about [x person who has been criticizing Taxxon that you have shown to have a friendly relationship with]? I think we all need to chill out a little about the pred hunting shit. I think some of the opinions that have filtered into much of the critcism border on transphobic and are things I would never agree with. I don't think it's constructive and its just getting everyone worked up, to the point we see things that aren't there and recognize patterns that don't really weave together into anything. I can't tell anyone what to do. I can teach, to a general audience, what good boundaries and internet etiquette looks like. I can demonstrate the importance of admitting when you were wrong or made a mistake. I cannot force anyone to do anything. I understand for some of my cohorts and audience that this may be a dealbreaker. I'm sorry I disappointed you. But I am more sorry for allowing my paranoia that made me frame Taxxon not as a person but as a Monster.

I will not be posting about Taxxon and her activities or opinions going forward. I ask that anyone in my Discord and other communities to do the same and not to ask me about her either. What happened here may be part of a larger conversation I will have going forward but for the forseeable future, I will be keeping Taxxon's name out of my mouth.

And finally, to address the trans stuff:

The capacity for someone to perpetuate harm, and the capacity for them to benefit from that harm are not necessarily congruent with one another.

Myself and Patricia are both trans. There are stereotypes about trans men and trans women created by cis people that hurt both of us. The only people that truly benefit from that are cis people. I fell for those stereotypes and perpetuated them in a way that caused Taxxon harm. Trans women are not inherently dangerous just because they have unconventional interests and to not give them the same grace as every other group is transphobic. Taxxon also perpetuated stereotypes about me created by cis people that caused me harm. Trans men deserve empathy and understanding and shutting them out of conversations that affect their ability to live is transphobic. Us hurting each other even if, largely, it was at the hands of our respective audiences, is not constructive. It benefits neither of us. It hurts us and it hurts the community at large.

I hope that Taxxon finds the space to heal and grow. She deserves the grace to have messy relationships and explore things as she figures herself out and finds her place in the world as a young person, without the internet breathing down her neck and demanding her to be held accountable every time she scratches her ass the wrong way. (EDIT: I mean to say, people are criticizing her reactions to movie trailers with the same weight as her contentious behaviour.) I'm sorry for making a mess of things. I'm sorry that I asked Patricia to be the perfect minority. I do not demand nor do I expect forgiveness but it is important to me that my audience understands my position going forward.

I will not be covering this kind of thing in the future. In the past 48 hours two people unconnected to my YT channel recognized me in unrelated spaces. I have to contend with the fact that as I grow as a creator, my words carry more weight. They can damage people in a way that an unknown can't. I don't get the benefit of shouting into the void as I once did. I will go forward interacting with other creators first and foremost as a coworker and a critic, not as a watchdog. Never again. No good can come of it.

Thank you for reading, and feel free to ask me questions in the replies of this post.

EDIT: I've gotten a lot of mixed responses to this post. Please understand that this is not my complete thoughts and I'm still working to present you with something that will hopefully, for all parties, be a more satisfactory end to this. This was an initial break of tension and an announcement that I am currently at this time formulating my thoughts into something cohesive and presentable. Not on the exact time table that I initially planned to start talking about this, but as I said, there is more to come. Thank you for your patience.

[skeletonh0e]

Can I request how the boys would treat a sick reader? I've been feeling like shit lately so I would appreciate it 😭

Sorry you feel bad homie! Sending you all the love! And for this in particular I'm going with a human reader but pronouns are gender neutral

You're sick (ft. The boys)

Classic Sans:

Nope. Into bed. Getting rest.

He's very loving but also firm, admittedly he doesn't know much about human illnesses but he wants you healthy, so you're in bed. He'll handle the rest

He's not leaving much room for argument

And yes if he feels it's severe enough you will be dragged to a healer

Gets you some medicine, even cooks for you (that's rare for his lazy ass), and does keep you company

Skeletons probably can't get sick, at least not from the common cold or whatever

He'll even let you cuddle up to him, even if you're snotty

He's still making jokes though make no mistake

"the plague, the flu, and the common cold walk into a bar. The bartender asks "Hey what is this? Some kind of sick joke?"" Da dum tss

Not smothering by any means, it'd Sans, he's still chill about the whole thing, like I said just firm and doesn't want you to worsen your condition

Underswap Sans:

THE MAGNIFICIENT SANS TO THE RESCUE

Literally just said you weren't feeling so hot and suddenly he's dedicated to completely spoiling you until you get better

Medicine? He's already bought plenty just in case. Food? Making you anything within reason. Blankets? You gotta lotta blankets? Stuff you need to do? No you don't he will do it

"worry not my beloved! while i am here nothing shall disturb your recovery!"

It's a bit much but you can't say you're not thankful for it

He won't be extremely touchy, he doesn't think he can catch anything from you but he doesn't wanna risk it either

Still supportive of you though!! Make no mistake but germs are Icky!

Extremely good at managing doctors appointments and such if it there's a need for it to go that far

Definitely studying up for next time about human conditions, he's so worried he's not doing enough.

He wants you to be alright y'know?

Underfell Sans:

The fuck you mean you're sick?!? Have you not been careful!?

You're getting a lecture lmao, how dare you not keep your immune system in check, it's like you want to inconvenience hum!

Y/N: "....you don't have to care for me-"

Red: "no fuck you im going to"

Does the typical shit, medicine, makes sure you're in bed and actually resting, gets you food, etc. Just all in a very grouchy way

Will also take caring for you as an excuse to not to his typical jobs, content to lay with you while you benchwatch some shows

The hypocrisy of him lecturing you about letting yourself get sick but not taking any precautions with you isn't lost on anyone

Expect some typical brutally honest Red though he is not afraid to tell you that you look like shit

Which tbf you probably do but that's besides the point

Complains he won't go through this if there's a second time but we all know he will

Horrortale Sans:

C O N C E R N

It takes everything in him to not panic instantly, pls reassure him it's a simple sickness and that'll it clear up in a few days. PLS TELL HIM UR NOT DYING

After that is over he's going into caregiver mode, no questions asked

More intense than Classic, but not as smothering as Swap. Very attentive nonetheless

Gets you whatever you ask for or need, keeps a very close on your condition for improvements as well as making sure it doesn't worsen

Whatever need to be done it will be done he will be your provider

Definitely has no problem with physical contact, fuck him getting sick you're more important

If he had his way you wouldn't leave the bed until you're completely healed but he'll happily just carry your from place to place if need be

Honestly still worried despite your reassurances anyway

He'll be so relieved once it's all over

Underlust Sans:

Awwww baby what's wrong? :(((

Quickly assets the situation and immediately starts to care for you

It's pretty surprising how he switches from his goofy flirtatious self to a very sweet dependable caregiver

I mean it's not like you expected him to be a dick and blow you off completely but still

Gets you all comfy in bed, some soup, maybe some tea and even offers a massage

Not to say the flirting completely goes away though

Ace: "you're still pretty hot like this ya know"

Y/N: *having a fucking coughing fit*

Keeping this as SFW as possible but let's just say he's not opposed to catering to your other needs if you have them at all during sick hours

If not he's down to give a massage or cuddle for sure

Fresh Sans:

Imm be real with you, he is not the best man for this

I think you're gonna have to really explain that you're sick and not in the mood for his usual antics

And he still doesn't quite get it??? But at the very least he's concerned enough to at least try to do something

Man is a parasite bro technically is a form of sickness be easy on him

You'll have to tell him what to get and he'll get it

He's still extremely touchey, possibly more so as even if he doesn't understand how to help someone who's sick, he does care for you and doesn't like you being in a bad mood of any sorts

Will watching him do some sweet tricks help? Cuz he'll do 'em

Kind of annoying in the sense he'll kinda constantly be asking "are you better now? what about now?"

If it actually gets to a really concerning point for him he'll go harass some bitches for some quick healing medicine

Will probably make some enemies while retrieving it but if it means you two can go to chucky cheese later no problem it's worth it

[astray-anomaly]

I was bored and made a Ultrakill Gabriel x Ferryman one shot if anyone cares to read it. The Ultrakill brainrot is getting to me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63510595

Fic text underneath

Gabriel landed on the ferry with a soft thud that made the worn wooden deck creek underneath his feet. He had been granted some free time which he didn’t know what to do with but he somehow ended up in Wrath on the Ferryman’s ship. He did visit often after saving them from the river Styx and grew quite fond of the sinner. However they were nowhere to be seen on the deck where Gabriel was usually greeted by them.

Possibly they were inside taking care of the passengers and the ship or simply just on a break. The Angel made his way inside, out of the pouring rain. He’d wish to shake the water out of his wings but he didn’t dare want to ruin the interior of the vessel which the Ferryman did so hard to keep comfortable for the souls aboard. Gabriel truly admired how kind they were despite being a sinner, he wished he could have some more of that himself as he lost his temper too quickly at times.

He dissipated his wings and walked through the corridors of the ship in hopes of finding the sinner who cherished him so much. Too much for their own good.

After wandering for minutes between the hallways there was still no sight of the Ferryman, perhaps they were in their cabin after all. He turned on his heel to head back to the direction of their quarters. He found the door cracked open but still knocked politely before opening it. “Charon?”

There was no answer and the husk seemed to be nowhere in the room. Bed and desk were empty, the canvas propped up in their painting corner of their room seemed unfinished. Gabriel stepped closer to the painting and realized it was another one of him. The amount of works the Ferryman made for him were always flattering and impressive.

He hovered his hand over the canvas, looking at the wings that were barely started. Some of the strokes looked harsher like they were a result of frustration. He then noticed the paint palette to the side with various mixes of blues that never seemed to get the shade of his wings just right. The Ferryman was always a perfectionist, especially when it came to making art depicting their savior.

Gabriel’s mind wandered, maybe he could help them with their paintings one day so they could get the color just right. Even if he didn’t care about the details being perfect he didn’t want his friend to stress over such small things. He knew they already had enough on their shoulders for taking the job of ferrying the souls of the damned around.

He turned away from the painting, right, he still needed to find where they were. He was growing worried until he remembered one place he hadn’t checked, his own quarters. The Ferryman had made a room for him a while ago so Gabriel could have longer stays instead of having to fly back to heaven. The room was the biggest the Ferryman could find, akin to their own room.

Gabriel opened the door to his cabin and looked around the room until his eyes settled upon the Ferryman who was sleeping in his bed. It was more like a nest now with all of the pillows and blankets Gabriel piled onto it. Gabriel sighed and approached the nest, looking down at the skeleton resting peacefully. It was hard to tell whenever they were actually asleep so he was careful with his movements so as to not wake them.

Did they really miss him that much to crawl into his bed while he was gone? He was not able to visit for a while. He carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, watching their chest rise and fall with each breath despite the fact their flesh and lungs had long been discarded. He didn’t question the logic of it.

He carefully got up again to take off the pieces of armor which were starting to get uncomfortable. The breastplate and pauldrons were especially the most annoying pieces. But with those parts of his armor finally off he got into the bed next to the Ferryman, letting his body relax into the mattress. It certainly wasn’t as soft as his bed in heaven but it was comfortable nonetheless. He appreciated that despite the scarce materials in Wrath the Ferryman still wished to give Gabriel the best comfort they could.

His head perked up when he heard the husk move in the bed, turning over so their covered face looked at Gabriel. Noticing the ashy dark skin with the white and gold armor. “My light?” Their voice was still heavy with sleep.

“Shhh, you can go back to sleep, my darkness.” He whispered, reaching out and gently rubbing their arm.

“Oh no you should have warned me- I- I should have been there to greet you-” They tried to sit up, looking around the room. “Oh my- I shouldn’t be in your room, I shouldn’t have been resting- I should-”

“Charon.”

They were cut off when Gabriel grabbed their wrists, grip gentle but firm. “Please, do not fret. You can rest here, I didn't mean to disturb your slumber.” He reached up to put a hand on the side of their clothed face. “You deserve a break for all of the work you have done.”

They didn’t resist when Gabriel pulled them back down on the bed. Holding them close so their body was against his, their head resting on his chest. They relaxed at the sound of the angel’s heartbeat while also trying to not panic at how close they were to him. “…Thank you, my light.”

The two held each other close, the Ferryman’s hands unconsciously feeling Gabriel’s skin, making the Angel quietly blush underneath his helmet. Gabriel hugged the Ferryman closer, summoning his wings again which were now dry. Wrapping them around both of them, the soft feathers brushing against the Ferryman’s bones. They looked at the wings in awe every time even if they saw them up close multiple times before.

His wings always reminded them of the sky when they were alive, the blue was so beautiful. Usually the Ferryman hated recalling their memories from earth or even of the times they still had flesh but this, they liked. They could stare into Gabriel’s wings forever, like their own sky. They didn’t need to make it to heaven to truly see it, all their heaven was right here in their arms.

Neither wanted to let go of each other, they didn’t need to speak, they just enjoyed each other’s company until sleep took them both.

Hours later the Ferryman had awoken again, still in Gabriel’s bed but the angel was nowhere to be found. They felt something in their hand and looked down, a blue shiny feather between their boney appendages. If they could physically smile then they would be.

They kept the feather close, this would be the perfect reference for their painting. They could finally get the color right.

Yet they wished that maybe their light could be there for a real reference. It’d be an honor to have Gabriel help with one of their paintings one day.

But for now they had to be patient.

[leaveharmony]

@stargazerofgoldenwords

"You know what this game needs? An inventory supplementing skeleton minion in pirate boots and sunglasses with bags stuffed into its ribcage!" - BW apparently

[weatherman667]

Part XVI - But Human's Can't Magic

Something that absolutely infuriates me.

Most people think they do it because Tolkien did it. The reason Tolkien did it is that he wanted a low fantasy setting. None of the main races can use magic, and most of the magic in the world is leftover from the time of it's creation, or in the realm of literal angels, or damn-near close.

But, if it wasn't Tolkien who said Humans can't use magic, where did we get it from, the Bible?

No. The Catholic put a lot of effort into rent-seeking your salvation, and so says magic is not real. Protestants were the ones running Witch Hunts. The Bible itself says magic is real. The reason Genies are slaves kept in lamps is that King Solomon had such great magic power, (derived from his great wisdom), that he was able to make the incredible feat of enslaving them. He's the reason why the Seal of Solomon is often used in the iconography of magic circles.

The reason why using magic is bad is that the best way to learn it is by summoning and detaining demons. According to occultism. The summoning of demons is the bad part, not the magic part.

So, why do we think Humans can't use magic?

D&D. They honestly had no idea what they were doing, but they had no idea what they were doing because no one had ever done anything like it before. My problem with D&D is that they have never - bothered - to fix the problems.

The big problem they had is what while they use Northern European-inspired classes, they wanted to decouple them from any mythology to make them more extensible. And this is why the world building of anything D&D/Pathfinder is so absolutely terrible.

In pretty much every - other - fantasy setting, magic is something anyone with the aptitude can use. Why? BECAUSE IT'S FUN! BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK AM I IN A FANTASY SETTING IF I CAN'T USE MAGIC?

Okay, yes, you can have one person in the party do all of the magic things, sure, that works. But, if you can't use magic, and your enemies can't use magic, then why are we in a fantasy setting?

And this is a serious question you have to ask yourself. You have to decide how low or high fantasy your fantasy setting is, but if you strip out all of the magic, except one magic MacGuffin, then why are you even bothering making it a fantasy setting. Even Beowulf has multiple magic swords, and they were created by Humans, (swords EARNED their names, they were not given them).

Case in point: Spice & Wolf. Is Spice & Wolf a fantasy setting, or simply a medieval story? The original anime had like 2 magic beings, and everything else was entirely mundane. And while Spice & Wolf doesn't use real-world locations, it reads like some piece of folklore some medieval monk wrote down, and took the effort to research economics before he did.

But, you don't have to think too deeply about it. The reason might be because you want to fight a skeleton army.

This isn't to insult Spice & Wolf, as it's a great anime. But, if Magic is so hard to use it never actually appears in the setting, then why are you even making a fantasy story? If you want to write a Human / Werewolf / (other) love triangle, then just put a shirtless werewolf on the front cover and write the story you want to write.

Okay, but D&D makes magic something that heroes can use, because they are heroes?

And that just creates false expectancy. Your character didn't became an epic hero because of epic training, devious guile, challenging challenges, or even a skillful mentor, but because they are the protagonist. This might sound like the average Isekai, but Isekai actually justifies the Protagonist having his powers because a god - quite literally - blessed him. Just like in Grecian Heroic Myth, most of the Grecian heroes were either demigods, or blessed by the gods.

D&D gives the heroes power because they can use the PC rules instead of the NPC rules.

You Want to Make a Fantasy World: Part I - Magick

The first thing you need to decide when making a fantasy world is how magick works.

That might seem heady, but let's go over what you have to decide:

Who can use magick.

How do they use magick.

And how powerful can magick get.

Do you want 9th level magick, that can rip a giant hole in the world and summon unkillable monsters?

Because, honestly, you don't need it.

Can 9th level magick only be used by decrepid old wizards with one foot in their grave? Only it be used by chosen heroes? Only be by inhuman things, like Dragons and Daemons and Liches?

Low level but common magick can have a huge effect on the setting. Being able to light a fire can allow you to save the time and effort it takes to start a fire. Heating a rock can be used to heat a home, or even a bath, giving the equivalent of modern sanitation. Hand washing, bathing, and toilets have done the most for Human longevity. Can you go to a priest, give him a penny, and have him cure your cancer?

Sure, curing cancer isn't as cool as curing sword wounds, but the medical effects it can have on longevity are staggering.

Maybe magic is something that can only be done by a minority of the population, that dedicate themselves to the study.

None of them are wrong answers, so long as they are CONSISTENT.

If magickal ability depends on your bloodline, then someone, somewhere is going to think it's a good idea to selectively breed mages to keep the magics strong. The mages might become the noble classes, they might form their own class, which they breed endogenously, like Hindus.

If only inhuman things can cast upper level magick, and you see a seemingly ordinary Human cast that kind of magick, then guess what? He's not actually an ordinary Human.

Does magick need a physical catalyst? Does it consume reagents? How rare are these reagents? Do they come in one of a few types, or is every twig of berries a reagent for a different spell? Maybe upper level spells require expensive reagents, and that's the limiting factor? Maybe these spells use too much mana, and therefore can only be done by places of power?

Does teleportation require Line of Sight? Can you open long-range portals only if you have local knowledge? Can you target places of power from a distance?

We start with the simple, coarse questions, and get to the finer ones later on. When? When you come up with a good idea for how it works? Or, honestly, when you need to use it. It's perfectly fine to wait until the characters need/want to teleport to decide how it functions.

Another way to limit spells if by giving the heroes a rare magickal item. Why can they use portals?, because they have the Staff of the Herald. Why do they have the staff of the herald?

Given by someone important.

Monster loot.

They found it in an old, abandoned building.

They earned it by accomplishing some feat, or level of training.

Again, all you have to decide is how rare the item is, and maybe if you need some sort of innate/trained ability to use it.

[mayspicer]

Girl help I really need to do the test tasks for a new job or else my life is gonna get very bad real soon, but all I want to do is draw ttrpg characters.

[katakaluptastrophy]

The thing about having read our way through two previous books full of necromancers and weird eldritch shenanigans is that the absolute horror of what happens to John as a person doesn't quite register.

John's own glib, matter of fact narration tells the story as an apotheosis. He was doing great. He'd have fixed everything if only people had listened.

But reading between the lines in the John chapters, you glimpse something rather different.

John basically spends the first half of the Jod chapters sitting in the dark with his creepy yellow eyes, not eating or sleeping, literally stroking his favourite corpses and coming out with chill and fun statements about how he can feel their skin when he's away from them and he's 'waking up'. Cool, cool.

Passing swiftly over the cow dome, Presidential Puppet Pals, and the suitcase nuke, day to day life in the cow dome must have been fun... You're all on the Interpol watchlist, the Vatican is asking a lot of questions, the police are outside and John - who hasn't slept in a week and doesn't eat anymore and is probably wearing some kind of weird novelty tshirt - comes wandering past while you're eating breakfast, followed by a dozen silent, dead-eyed corpses like some kind of mother hen. He makes a cow joke, and then zones out because he got distracted by listening to the bacteria in your gut.

And then some guys die accidentally and it turns out he can eat death energy. So now he's got creepy Twilight eyes, an entourage of corpses, a cape, some very dodgy eyeliner, and he's barely breaking a sweat as he instantly kills over 100 people, says it was an accident, and then, dead serious, tells his followers to drag dead UN peacekeepers inside to add to his 'skeleton army'.

By the end, he's not slept or eaten in weeks, is tweaking his own bodily processes on the fly, is puppeting the dead US president and possibly an army of over a hundred corpses, monitoring G- in Melbourne, carrying on at least two conference calls, and helping to build barricades out of chairs.

And I just keep thinking how weird it must have been for his friends. How sometimes he would have seemed like the man they'd known and loved for so long, and sometimes he would seem different. Did they ever find themselves mourning the man he was? Did they ever stand there as he tuned into something they couldn't fathom, staring at them with those yellow eyes, and feel some awful, uncanny valley terror? Did he ever feel like he was losing himself? At what point did the cow jokes stop feeling like oh, classic John and start to be a reminder that his desire for vengeance and the scope of his powers were outstripping his remaining...perspective?...restraint?...humanity?

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

What about the Doors/Pressure shopkeepers trying to pretend they aren't giving their crush special treatment when in groups. Like, special inventory, discreet discounts, all that jazz

Jeff (Doors)

"Oye, I see what you're doin', Jeff. Thought you weren't one for giving out freebies."

*shrug*

"Don't play dumb! I saw you sneak the skeleton key into their bag! Even Bob's a witness!"

No matter what El Goblino says, Jeff will just wave off any accusations of him giving you "special treatment" whenever you stopped by the shop with your group.

While none of them donated to the tip jar, you were the only one who ever did...and even when you came back again and again, it was always you who showed him charity.

The rest of your group would just argue over what to spend their money on, try to rush ahead, mess with his radio, etc. etc.

But you trust Jeff, and he trusts you <3

So you get small discounts on his wares, and despite him not being able to speak, you could tell he's only looking after you.

The goblin jokes about Jeff's little "crush" on you...then he sees the entity's eyes widen and realizes "wait amigo,,I wasn't being serious do you actually like them?????"

He just shoos him away and will deny it to kingdom come, but it is true.

The moment you realized his feelings for you was when Rush attacked the shop once, and you thought you were done for-

When Jeff instinctively pulled you behind the counter and slammed the shutter down, keeping you uncomfortably close (yet somehow you've never felt safer).

When it's all over, he blushes and lets you go free.

You thank him with a small kiss on the forehead(?) and promise to see him again soon.

The next time you get duped by Dupe, or attacked by Eyes, Timothy, Screech, or a snare and need to heal...you discover a few bandaids in your pocket that weren't there previously...

Huh.

Wonder who gave you those?

Sebastian (Pressure)

Normally, Sebastian doesn't care to make personal connections with any of the expendables.

He's just there as their supplier before seeing them off on their journey, hoping they're putting his resources to good use.

But recently he's been seeing you more often, coming by with a new group or by yourself, trying your best to survive long enough to reach him.

Ofc, you've died to stupid things before (or maybe you're just trying to get all the monster documents..in which he's convinced you're some masochist), but you did have the most common sense out of your group and didn't try to annoy him.

The others just waste flash beacon charges on trying to blind the poor guy and stick the keycard in a medkit they couldn't afford...and for what?

Why do your "friends" do that? Are they stupid or something?

You tell them to stop, and it's...actually kinda nice to hear somebody willing to defend him.

People usually don't give a shit about the giant scary fish's feelings, yet for some reason you do.

Of course, Sebastian was reasonably suspicious about it.

"Are you acting this way just to get a freebie?" He assumes. "Because if you are, then you're definitely as stupid as-"

"No, I'd never do that to you." You shake your head. "You're here, helping us survive out there, risking a lot to get us those supplies...is it wrong for me to appreciate that?"

"......"

He goes quiet for a minute, but after the rest of your group leaves, he asks you to stay for a moment.

"You were looking at this Necrobloxicon for a while...you must reeeeally want it, huh?" He grins, flicking his tail where the book was strapped. "It's a rarity."

"I...can't afford that. I'm fine with this dingy flashlight-"

"It's yours for 70% off. Take it or leave it."

You do a double take. "Wait, wha-"

"70% off. Take it. Or leave it." He says through gritted teeth, impatient, only to smile when you accept the deal without further question. "Good. Now don't go telling anyone I'm offering discounts. That's your only one unless I feel generous. Capiche?"

"Gotcha. Thank you, Seb. This means a lot. I hope to see you again soon." You smile back, holding the spooky book tightly, and leave him alone with his thoughts.

And a warm and fuzzy feeling in his chest-

Wait.

"Oh no....what the fuck am I doing????? That's it! NO more discounts for anyone, Sebastian!" He scolds himself.

Little does he know, he's gonna keep giving them out, but only for you.

[pomegranatesarchive]

can u PLEASEEE do an smau w oscar x american! reader who’s super gothy and witchy and they go to salem for halloween pleaseee!!

salem date | oscar piastri

pairing; oscar piastri x witchy!reader

summary: oscar loves his witchy girlfriend, and takes her wherever she wants to go, even if it means missing work

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, landonorris, and 619,026 others!

yourusername: my favorite thing about moving to monaco? getting to decorate a whole new space and exploring cute new witchy stores 🐈‍⬛🖤

view comments below!

oscarpiastri: is living with me not your absolute favorite thing about moving to monaco?

yourusername: no. walking abracadabra on the beach is my favorite thing, living with you is like top 10

user1: i still can’t belive they named their cat ‘abracadabra’

user2: it’s so on brand for yn, but for oscar? not so much

user3: please, yn has that man wrapped around her finger. if she told him to change his name to halloween, he would do it

maxverstappen1: yn i need my cards to be read again, when are you free?

yourusername: i’m free friday next week, that okay?

maxverstappen1: perfect!! thank you :D

user4: in doing tarot readings for the drivers is so dear to me

landonorris: wait i want my cards read too :(

yourusername: sorry lan, im not free for another 2 weeks after that

landonorris: ugh max ruins everything

maxverstappen1: you snooze you lose, loser

user5: im in monaco, yns in monaco, i have a chance to met yn ln. holy poop

user6: omg i need an apartment tour????

user7: weird question, do you ever get looks by other people? i know you dress quite alternately and was wondering how accepting europeans are?

yourusername: i get looks all the time, but I've become quite used to it, im not bothered by it as i used to be. but i definitely get more looks in places that aren't so touristy, than places like france. key is simply ignoring them 🖤

user8: they just can't handle your swag

charles_leclerc: leo wants another playdate with abra, when are you free?

maxverstappen1: you aren't tricking ANYONE. you keep using these playdates so yn can read your cards without you needing to make an appointment

user9: appointment?? 😭

yourusername: is that true charles?? you've been using leo??

charles_leclerc: NO YN DON'T LISTEN TO HIM, HE IS JUST JEALOUS OF LEO'S AND ABRACADABRAS RELATIONSHIP.

yourusername: i can't belive this charles, i just, i need a moment.

charles_leclerc: yn... it's not what it looks like...

oscarpiastri: am I interrupting something???

user10: you're interrupting the friendship breakup of the century 💔

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc, and 793,073 others!

yourusername: we are all halloween ready

view comments below!

user11: my favorite time of the year <33

yourusername: you and me both

charles_leclerc: leo misses abra

yourusername: does he? or do you just miss my card readings?

charles_leclerc: little bit of both, i got him a halloween costume, you don't want to see it?

yourusername: of course i want to see it

charles_leclerc: i'll be over in 10 minutes!!

yourusername: DO NOT expect that i'll read your cards

charles_leclerc: i don't 😞

user12: they're back!!!!

user13: salem this year???

yourusername: im still not sure, oscar cant make it this year and it feels weird going without him :((

user14: "it feels weird going without him" OSCAR IF YOU DONT GET YOU AND YN ON A FLIGHT TO SALEM RIGH NOW ISTG.

user15: im going to salem this year in honor of yn not being able to go ✊

maxverstappen1: abra looks so cute!! jimmy and sassy need one of those hats right now

yourusername: i'll make more max, what colors?

maxverstappen1: blue and orange please!

user16: cat lovers bond in the weirdest ways

oscarpiastri: thank you for re-decorating love, i just love waking up to a fake skeleton on our ceiling 🧡

yourusername: put some respect on sir bones name oscar. i’ll have you know that he’s there to protect you.

oscarpiastri: from what?

yourusername: the spiders

oscarpiastri: and how does sir bones protect me from said spiders??

yourusername: he scares them away. duh.

landonorris: yeah duh oscar. gosh get with the program.

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, and 620,726 others!

yourusername: salem we love you 🖤

view comments below!

user17: SALEM DATE 3 YEARS IN A ROW!! THATS RIGHT BABY 🕺🕺

maxverstappen1: you’re telling me i could have skipped media day?

yourusername: would you be interested in going to salem?

maxverstappen1: um, to skip media day? yes!

user19: max and his hate for media day will live down as the longest rivalry in f1

user20: need myself a man who would call in sick just so he can take me to some random town for a couple hours

user21: random town??? put some respect on salems NAME.

user22: do you guys think the FIA knew he was missing media day for this, or do you think he told them he was like sick or something 😭

landonorris: i can confirm that they did not know about salem. and he is now in trouble.

user23: NOOO OSCAR

user24: omg oscar just got a fine

user25: HOW MUXH???

user24: they didn’t disclose. all they said was “we have been made aware that a certain driver decided to go on vacation instead of fulfilling their duty.”

user26: that’s so funny

user27: #free oscar

oscarpiastri: the fine was worth it 🖤

yourusername: 🖤🖤🖤

user28: omg wait. do you guys think this was a surprise?? because yn said before that oscar wasn’t going to make it??

yourusername: yes, oscar did suprise me with tickets to salem this morning!

user29: OMG THATS SO CUTE AHHHHH

user30: they’re perfect for each other

charles_leclerc: group trip to salem next year?

georgerussell63: we have practice that day

maxverstappen1: so? we’ll all call in sick or something

f1: 🤨

maxverstappen1: you didn’t see that

. . .

notes: thank you for requesting!! this was fun to make ;))

[illubean]

Could I get headcanons for Feitan, Illumi, Leorio, and Chrollo falling for gn!reader who by all means seems like a strong, nuturing, emotionally stable individual but every once in awhile casually says or does smthin that makes people go "Oh you're a little fuckin nuts, actually"

(e.x.: Most of their D.I.Y. furniture is made of different kinds of bone, morbidly interested in the more gorey parts of their jobs, probably works in a field that allows them to be around the dead often like a taxidermist or a mortitian, highkey just unabashashedly a morbid little freak™️ whenever it comes up naturally in conversation but otherwise comes across as just an attentive lil guy you could bring home the average parents would love.)

HXH Men with a Morbid!S/o

Characters: Leorio Paladaknight, Illumi Zoldyck, Chrollo Lucilfer, Feitan Portor Type: Headcanons, Gn!reader

this is so me

Warnings: dead things and body parts and stuff

Leorio Paladaknight

being an aspiring doctor, Leorio thought that your knowledge on both human and animal anatomy was pretty useful

at first he didn't think much about your job and just assumed you were some type of doctor or biologist or something

he often asks you questions as he studies and you're a pretty good tutor

the first time Leorio realized you were kinda weird is when one day you were walking down the street and saw some roadkill

and you were like "aww too bad, the skin and bones are too damaged to harvest"

and you kept walking like it was normal while he was like ?!!??!?

or you guys were having a normal conversation and you say something like

"if you died i'd taxidermy you and re-articulate your skeleton so you'd be with me forever <3"

1 taxidermizing humans is illegal and 2 WHAT

he is cold sweating wtf did he get himself into

when he comes to your house for the first time and sees a bunch of bones, animal skins and wet specimens he damn near passes the fuck out

how do you just casually have dead things and remains around your house!?

AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU MADE YOUR COFFEE TABLE OUT OF CAMEL BONES?

he is freaking the fuck out and you're just like "dw everything is ethically sourced :D"

yeah he thinks you're a freak and he is too fearful to break up with you ever (not like he was planning to anyways)

Illumi Zoldyck

whatever drew Illumi to you had to have been some type of power

aside from that power, to Illumi you were relatively normal and had a good grip on your emotions which made you a perfect candidate

that being said he could care less what your job was, you'd just end up working for or with him eventually

when he started bringing you around the estate, you often sought out their guard dog Mike and Illumi couldn't think of why

that is until you came back one day with a human femur and bright smile on your face

"... where did you even get that?" "From one of Mike's victims. If I collect enough I could make a whole set of bar stools!"

he blinked at you and chose to ignore your statement

i mean, to each their own am i right?

so you have ah hobby, big deal

Illumi just thinks you're pretty normal personality wise until you randomly but casually drop information about what you do in your free time or have in your home

so now whenever he has a job Illumi calls you in for cleanup

you get to do.... whatever it is you do and there's no evidence of a dead body left behind, it's a win win

Chrollo Lucilfer

he couldn't care less what your job is because it's probably not worse than his 😭

he didn't really notice anything "morbid" about you until he asked about your jewlery

you wore things like resin caster bug pendants or bird skull earrings and stuff

he just assumed they were fake and you bought them because they looked badass

but then you told him you make it all YOURSELF

he is intrigued

he doesn't really question you past that because you were probably buying the bones and stuff somewhere (spoiler alert you're not)

what really caused him to think was when you casually just picked up a dead rat off the floor in some abandoned building you were exploring and suck it in your pocket

bro was so confused

"What do you need that for?" "To make a new necklace :3"

yeah now he knows that your odd taste in jewelry goes deeper than just that

he won't judge you though, if anything you're a better person than he is considering you don't kill things yourself

he is literally a murderer and a thief and has committed like 3467633788 crimes so he couldn't judge even if he wanted to

so now when he sees dead animals and what not he bags them up and brings them to you

he likes to sit in on your cleaning and making process

you seem like a perfectly normal and sweet person to everyone else but Chrollo knows about your freaky little hobby and it just makes him like you even more

Feitan Portor

I feel like for you and Feitan to even be acquainted you have to be part of the troupe

whatever you do outside of it is your business

buttttttt since you are his s/o and Feitan is probably homeless he crashes wherever you are

thus him finding out about your hobby and other job

out of everyone on this list he is the most interested

he too is a morbid little freak

he goes with you to find things and will help you with the cleaning/taxidermy or whatever process if you let him

what he doesn't understand though is why you don't just kill the things you want instead of hunting for already dead things

sometimes he will go catch like a squirrel or something and bring it back to you like a cat and tell you he found it like that

Fei baby. No the fuck you didn't

after doing what you're doing for so long you can tell what caused an animal to die but you wouldn't tell him that

he's just so cute and wants to be supportive of your hobby <3

[animalphotorefs]

Okay so a little away from your wheelhouse, but do you know where I could find photos of an actual giraffe skeleton (any modern species at this point) from multiple angles? I've been trying to find useful reference on their bone shape and articulation of things like the sternum, pelvis/hip sockets (any close angle), bird's eye of the spine/neck for *months* - best I've found is a single 3/4 shot of a skeleton for sale currently housed in an Oklahoma City museum. Everything else is the dreaded '3D model' of someone's *idea* of a giraffe skeleton, a side angle taken from all the way across a hall, some old (once again side-view) anatomy diagram sketches and extremely cursed AI-assembled things.

I would suggest emailing the Museum of Osteology in Oklahoma City! I think that’s where the skeleton for sale you’re talking about is. I have cold-called them with a random skeleton question before and they were very kind about helping me figure it out - they might have photos in their collection, or be willing to take some for you!

If that doesn’t work, reblog this or send another ask and I’ll see what else I can find.

[phossiii]

｡𖦹°‧⭑ monsters: chapter one

synopsis: you are introduced as the arkham imported member of the creature commandos. and a certain irradiated skeleton can't seem to catch a hint.

cw: reader is a monster, mature themes, profanity, innuendos, phosphorus is phosphorus, tame chapter

"And I have this question, for all the woke feminists out there..." the man-child on the screen emphasized, turning toward the camera. "Why do only girls get such cool waterfalls?"

Flag cringed, brow raising with disappointment at the infantile argument.

The hell was the world coming to?

"All over the world, our rights as men are being denigrated—"

Having heard enough, Waller cut the feed, eyes slyly gliding over to the general for his response.

"What a bunch of clowns," Flag scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dangerous clowns," Waller corrected, standing up from her office chair and moving toward the door. "Pokolistan is a friend of the U.S."

"Countries don't have friends."

"After your decades in the military, General Flag, I think you'd understand that true friendship is built on petroleum deposits. Especially un-mined ones in a backward-ass country that's never take advantage of its natural resources."

Leading him out the room, Waller started down the hall, exiting the corporate section of Belle Reve and entering an elevator that lead to the lower levels.

"Princess Ilana Rostovic, the heir apparent to Pokolistan, is already negotiating with the U.S for that oil," she continued, the digital screen showing that they had descended well past the basement. "And if she's overthrown by some nut-job in a witch's hat, all bets are off... We need to help Rostovic."

With a soft, digital ding, the elevator doors opened, revealing a heavily bolted and locked door with the words NON-HUMAN INTERNMENT DIVISION written in bold right above it.

Flag's brow nearly shot through the roof.

"I thought Congress put a stop to all Task Force X facilities since your daughter outed you?" he asked, suspicious.

"Technically, Congress said A.R.G.U.S can't use incarcerated human beings as mission operatives any longer," Waller corrected, typing in the password on the keypad before leaning in for the retina scan. "But what about beings that aren't human?"

"Huh?"

Entering the control room, the general was met by a multitude of screens and officers, along with a five-foot thick, Plexiglas window peering into the common area.

Warily, he approached it, and what he saw on the other side forced his eyes wide.

"What in the holy hell?"

Beyond the bolts, locks, and iron walls sat five different... creatures, each one more odd-looking than the last.

"This is Bell Reve Non-Human Internment Division," Waller introduced in a monotone. "For over fifty years, only those at the uppermost levels of security clearance are aware of its existence. By using these prisoners, I think we can arguably circumvent our new restrictions."

"Arguably?" Flag scoffed. "How?"

"Congress said we can't use human prisoners. These assholes aren't human."

"She's not a human?" he asked, nodding to the large, stitched up woman leaning against the wall.

"Is a corpse human?"

"Who is she?"

"We don't know," Waller shrugged. "We call her The Bride."

Nodding, the general turned his attention to the skeleton playing Jenga.

"Who's Jason and the Argonauts?"

"A sociopath who calls himself Dr. Phosphorus," she confirmed. "He has irradiated skin he can use to burn through people and objects."

"Well, how does that radiation affect the people around him?" Flag asked, concerned.

"If you don't sleep in the same room with him, the effects should be minimal."

"Minimal?"

"Consider it a free vasectomy."

Just then, the mutant-dog-thing sitting at the center of the room began to cough, violently, hacking up what looked to be leftovers of the day's lunch before licking it right back up.

"What is that thing?" Flag asked, disgusted.

"The Weasel," Waller answered. "It's one of the few soldiers still alive from Project Starfish in Corto Maltese. So we know it has what it takes to survive."

At the comment, he hushed up, looking off to the side with guilt.

"Sorry... I didn't mean to intimate about your son, Flag. When he died in Corto Maltese, he died a hero."

"That one looks like a discontinued dishwasher," he quickly changed the subject, pointing to the metal man sitting across from Dr. Phosphorus.

"That dishwasher killed over three-hundred Nazis in World War II. I would've dismantled it, but I thought it might come in use some day," Waller nodded. "It's known as G.I Robot."

Turning her head, her eyes trained on the meek girl sitting in the corner, who looked like both a woman and a fish.

"Next one is Nina Mazursky."

"What use is she walking around in a fishbowl?"

"Get her in water it's a different story," she answered. "She's the smartest and most reasonable of the bunch. She might be able to help you keep the rest of them in line."

Wearily, she let out a sigh, turning to one of the officers and sharing a knowing nod.

"Especially with the last one."

Raising a brow, Flag glanced back through the glass, confirming that he had been briefed on all the prisoners.

All the ones present, at least...

"There's more?" he asked.

"Imported fresh from Arkham Asylum," Waller nodded, typing in another passcode on the control panel in front of her before the door let out a resounding, harsh blare. "She passed the psych eval, though Batman was vehemently against her release."

Flag watched carefully as the doors slowly opened, two officers emerging from the shadows and revealing you, bound and gagged by a straight-jacket and bite restraint muzzle.

Instantly, his eyes shot wide, and he took an instinctual step back, disbelieving of the sight before him.

"Is that a...?  She's a living, breathing—"

"Demon, for all intents an purposes," Waller finished, unbothered. "The product of a satanic sacrifice gone wrong. (y/n) (l/n) was born with the devil get-up, and an affinity for fire magic."

Below, sat you with long, (h/c) hair, bright red skin, equally bright horns, a pointed tail, and sharp, slitted, yellow eyes. 

"I figured since we're up against a witch, why not fight sorcery with sorcery."

They forced you to sit on a dolly, feet chained to its surface, clasped so tight that it rendered you unable to move or struggle.

As if there wasn't a grenade in your brain-stem preventing you from going anywhere.

'Bastards...'

Lifting your head, you surveyed the area, taking note of each face within the freak show.

A Frankenstein rip-off...

A walking beam of cancer...

A man-dog...

A scrap heap...

And the Introvert from the Black Lagoon...

'Woulda done numbers in solitary.'

As Amanda Waller and General Rick Flag surfaced from behind you, Frankenstein, Cancer, and Man-Dog of the Ghoul Gang charged forward, launching an attack.

An attack... that was quickly thwarted with a good shock to the brain.

With loud shouts of pain, all of them, including you, stopped dead in your tracks, dropping to the ground in an instant.

Though, just as quick as it came, it left, by an act of somewhat mercy from your warden.

"This is your new task force, Flag," Waller stated, tossing him the detonation switch. "Let's call it... Task Force M. M for Monster."

"You bitch..." you growled, weakly lifting your head. "I wanna talk to the Bat... This was not part of the agreement..."

"I'm afraid Batman had no say in the matter," she stated, still completely unbothered. "You want back into your padded cell? You get this job done."

Sharply, she lifted your chin, your fiery eyes meeting hers, cold and unfeeling.

"Do I make myself clear?"

"So... you're really a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean there's a—"

"Yes."

"Does that mean you've seen—"

"No."

"Did your mother... y'know... with a—"

"Are you fucking stupid?"

You turned to him sharply, brows furrowed and eyes blazing with annoyance and fury.

He had been at this since the goddamn helicopter took off...

"Whoa, there, doll face," Phosphorus raised his hands in defense. "Don't shoot the messenger. I'm just sayin' what we're all thinking."

Though, that was only half of it.

In actuality, Phosphorus hadn't been able to rid his thoughts of you since the COs rolled you into the facility.

He had never seen anyone like you before—devil-like, dripping in both beauty and danger—never felt so entranced, intrigued, or turned on, either.

Emphasis on the turn-on part.

Your battle-wear was a zip-up, black leather jumpsuit with the pant legs torn off, paired with finger-less gloves and thigh-high, multiple buckle boots.

The zipper perfectly exposed your cleavage, making your chest look large and perky while the shorts put your legs on delectable display, outlining the very grab-able flesh of your thighs.

That, along with your black aviators and the cigarette hanging out the corner of your mouth, made you something out of his best worst nightmare.

And someone he wanted to get to know significantly better.

"Keep it to yourself," you spat, sizing him up. "I'd rather listen to a stuck goat."

"'Cause of sacrifices or...?"

"Say one more word, cancer stick, I swear to God—"

"Can you even really do that? Y'know, 'cause of the whole demon thing..."

"Fucking moron!" you growled, igniting your fist with fire before sending a punch straight for his face.

"Hey! Knock it off!" Flag barked, forcing you to stop mid-way, the whole squad turning to him with slight surprise. "I know you all aren't exactly enthusiastic about this mission. But—"

With a roll of her eyes, Bride let out a groan, already checking herself out of the conversation.

"General, I believe you've read us wrong," Phosphorus corrected, acting as if your flaming hand wasn't inches away from his face. "We're delighted to be here, and delighted to serve our country."

"Okay... uh, great."

As the irradiated skeleton faced forward, you dropped your fist, sharing a confused look with the Bride.

"Are you smiling?" you asked him, raising a brow.

"Yes."

"Sarcastically?" she added.

"Mmm-hmm."

You scoffed, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning back in your seat, allowing your eyes to drift over to the man-dog.

He was harshly gnawing at his restraints, letting out whimpering noises of fear

"G.I Robot is detecting unease. Could he be, G.I Robot asks, in fear of being discovered as Nazi scum?" the scrap heap stated, retracting his hand and replacing it with a gun.

"No," Flag assured, pushing away the weapon. "Put your arm... Put your gun down. He's not a Nazi."

"Child killer, though," Phosphorus shook his head. "Not a great look."

"Supposedly, he had a bad experience the last trip he took on this Osprey, that's all."

Glancing out the window, the Bride's eyes widened slightly, before she turned to the general.

"Are we in goddamn Pokolistan?" her brows furrowed, arms crossed over her chest.

"You've been here before?" Nina asked with a smile.

Bride rolled her eyes with a sigh, leaning back in her seat, "Fucking hell..."

"So..." Phosphorus started up again as he turned to you, thankful his skeleton-ness hid his shit-eating grin. "Is everything red... or just what I'm looking at right now?"

SMACK!

"Ow!" he played off, his grin growing even wider as he rubbed his cheek.

Adorably, you turned away, flipping him off as your one leg crossed over the other.

Now he was really intrigued (and turned on).

You were feisty.

He liked that.

He liked that a lot.

[taelophone]

✦ Teach Me ݁˖ ⋆˙⟡ — TA!Luigi Mangione x Reader ⋆⭒˚｡⋆ TWs: Pining . Sexual Tension . No Penetration . Smut . Power Play . Glasses on Luigi lol . Reader is kinda strange . Fingering . Kinda Mean Luigi . Overstimulation . ｡⋆ A/N: Sorry it took me so long I actually wasn't the biggest fan of this work. But I hope you enjoy it!

You could imagine that teaching was a tough job. The grading, the organization, teaching the same material at different levels day after day and hour by hour. Surely, the days would melt together, subjects and responsibilities sticking to each other and creating an unfortunate planning crisis.

That’s where the teaching assistant comes in. 

As you made your way into the lecture hall, you pep-talked your mind to brace yourself for a long, boring, and mentally draining speech that would last over an hour. At least you had some questions written down that you planned to ask Professor Harrison regarding the lesson.

But at least it was your final class today before you could crash into your room.

So when you waltzed into the lecture hall, scanning the room for your professor, you were immediately confronted with the realization that he…wasn’t there. Even when you took your seat, the metal feet of your chair dragged against the dull blue carpet, generating the only sound in the room full of silence.

The clock ticked, that nerve-wracking tick-tock for a whole three minutes. Two minutes left until the lesson started, the red seconds hand gliding across the clock as you thought about leaving. But then in came someone you’d never seen before.

He looked about your age, maybe even a smidge older as he waltzed in through the open doorway, his head tilted upward like he was the biggest in the room.

“Hey, guys. Harrison isn’t here, he had some family stuff to do, but I’ll probably be leading today’s discussion” he said, his strong and sculpted arms peering through the soft fabric of his maroon tee.

It was a conscious effort to not let your jaw clatter down onto the floor like a skeleton. Tall, muscular, incredibly well-kept, and graced with the strongest Italian genes to ever kiss the surface of the twenty-first century. 

“My name’s Luigi, I’m the new teaching assistant for Harrison, and my office hours are from four to seven-thirty.”

He smiled– the cute and content kind that left your heart squeezing with cuteness aggression and induced heart tremors. You stared directly through his eyes the best you could, following him with rapt attention that you seldom gave your real professor.

His voice; was a melancholic and deep hymn of firm knowledge that could mimic years of experience. He was tragically good and articulate with his words, subjects that you didn’t understand the first time untangling themselves in your mind to build clear pathways to the answer. In fact, you didn’t even need to ask the questions you had written down.

When he finished the lecture, gently closing his laptop and sitting atop the professor’s desk, he tapped his pen on the wooden surface repeatedly before turning to the room.

“Any questions? We have like…5 minutes left of class. Leave early, stay put, goof off, anything. As long as you’re not confused.” 

There was no way in hell you were gonna leave without so much as speaking to him. You gathered your things up, leaving your notebook full of questions and doodles down on the table before trotting your way down to where he sat.

“Questions?” He asked, his head tilted to the side slightly as he bit the little push button of his bright blue pen between his plush and pink lips.

“Yeah, sorry, I just need you to explain these to me in a little bit more depth,” you murmured, shooting him a breathy and nervous chuckle before handing him your small notebook.

He hummed, taking the notebook from you graciously before his onyx brown eyes darted across the bulleted questions and the little doodles on the edges of the white-lined paper. He chuckled, eyeing a particular drawing you did of a bunch of hearts and flowers in a vase.

“Pretty drawings, they’re very nice,” he nodded, leaning back to grab his notepad and quickly write down your questions on his own. “Alright, what’d you need help with specifically? What’s confusing you?”

You made up some excuse on just needing it to be explained in more detail, prompting him to pull up a chair next to the cherry-oak desk. You quickly sat down in front of him, listening to him carefully as he essentially re-explained the lesson all over again from start to finish.

“Wow thank you,” you smiled, letting out a particularly girlish laugh as you finished writing down key points you had already written earlier on a clean leaf of paper. “That makes a lot of sense, I was so confused earlier.”

“Glad I could help,” he murmured, returning your giddy and girly grin with a boyish and bright beam of his own. He watched as you swung your backpack strap over your left shoulder and headed out the door, giving you a quaint wave as you did so.

Holy shit. Holy shit. OH MY GOODNESS.

Poor you. Poor, poor you.

He was even cuter up close with his smooth and seemingly flawless skin. A perfectly tanned tone with hints of olive under his complexion. And god, not to mention his nose…it’s faces like that that make you wanna cook and clean all day.

“No, Kat, you’re not listening. He’s perfect, like ten out of ten no flaws,” you said while staring at your vanity, gently applying moisturizer to your face. Kat, on the other end of the FaceTime, only grimaced at you with furrowed brows, the only sliver of her face you could actually see.

“Okay…let’s not sleep with the TA…” she joked, chuckling just out of frame as she propped the camera up and slid on a green spa headband before taking out her contact lenses. “I haven’t met him yet I don’t think. When did he start working for Harrison?”

You paused, ceasing your hand movements across your face as you thought about it for a moment. “I dunno actually. We didn’t make small talk, I just wanted to hear him say anything to me.”

Kathy laughed, glaring at you momentarily with wide eyes and furrowed brows. “Oh you’re filthy,” she giggled, repeating her skincare steps as you finished up yours. You sighed, shaking your head in what should have been a shame if a giddy and amused grin didn’t find shelter on your face.

“Hear me out, I just-“

“No.”

You sighed yet again, heavier and less enthusiastic before picking up the phone again. By now the device had grown hot, your 3-hour-long girl talk proving aggravating to your phone's thinning patience and heat capacity. “Phone’s getting hot, girlie. I’m gonna go lay down and rethink life.” You murmured.

“Alright babes goodnight,” Kathy smiled, leaning forward over her own vanity to hang up the phone.

And with a deep exhale through your nose, you stood up from your stool and climbed into your soft bed. With the comforter up to your ribs and your legs crossed at the ankle, you stared up at the ceiling before letting drowsiness lull you to sleep.

As days went by and Luigi slowly became more and more present in Professor Harrison’s class, you felt yourself spending more time during lessons watching his every move. If you were lucky enough, Luigi would teach a class and then chat and socialize with your classmates.

Days had turned into weeks, and weeks rolled over into months. You had been to pretty much every single office hour, pretending to be behind on certain topics and playing a dangerous game of feigned catch-up just to sit at the desk with Luigi and let him reteach what you already know. At some point it was like child’s play, seeing how long you could dance around the bomb until it blew up into lovelorn smithereens.

And today you planned on it being no different. Front of the room, head straight, and leg-crossed at the ankles while you spaced out on your teaching assistant’s tantalizing hands. Oh, how darling they’d look wrapped around my neck instead, hurling me into oxygen-lacking delirium while he made me cry for being such a bad student. To prevent yourself from being any more provocative than you were already being, you lowered your eyes to the table in front of you.

The conversation around you continued on without you, vowels and consonants linking together in a pained effort to create muffled and static gibberish while you daydreamed about the man four feet in front of you.

“Yeah, no I get that…I don’t even know why I signed up to be a TA sometimes I still have my own things to work on,” he said, fidgeting with the end of his light-blue collared shirt. “I actually have a paper I’m supposed to be working on.”

He must’ve noticed how quiet you were. Your arms folded across your chest as you leaned and slouched all the way back in your chair, maybe the way your eyes were trained onto the table in front of you. But either way, he made his way over.

He tapped on your table, once, and then twice to grab your attention before holding up a thumb and tilting his head to the side. The question was silent, but loud and clear as you nodded your head.

“You okay?”

Upon seeing your nonverbal confirmation, he mirrored your action and made his way back over to Harrison’s desk. The sounds of chatter and rushed packing filled the room, watching as people gravitated toward one another and began preparing to file out one by one.

“Alright guys, have a good rest of your day. If anyone asks you were here the whole period. If you need help or anything or just wanna chat, stick back” he said. 

If you weren’t staring at him so hard, you would have missed it. His eyes flickered over in your direction for a fraction of a second, knocking the wind right out of your lungs.

An invitation. One that you could easily deny or accept without feeling pressured or guilty later. A clever man, he was, something that you caught onto very early into him easing into your days. You learned that he was a computer science engineer, which immediately made sense with the way he detangled the wires in your brain.

Your legs carried you over to the desk before you could even think of a plan, placing yourself before him like he called you with some imaginary whistle.

“I knew you’d notice. Good catch” he beamed, straightening his back a little bit as he leaned his back hips against the edge of the desk. “You seemed spaced today, are you doing okay? You’re usually more…active.”

“Oh yeah I’m okay, I was just a little tired today,” you replied, giving him a reassuring nod. You were lying through your teeth, and a part of you felt like he could possibly sense it with the way he wordlessly stared down at you for a moment before nodding slowly; hesitantly.

“Get some sleep, okay? You can always come to me if you need help or don’t understand something. I’ll try to explain” He nodded, giving you a boyish smile with a light pink dusted on the apples of his cheeks.

“Thanks,” you said, shifting your weight to one leg. “I’ll probably come by during office hours.

I want help reviewing my notes.”

“Nice. I’m gonna be back in here, but I’ll probably come in a bit earlier than four so I can…grade quizzes,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as the realization slowly sunk in.

“Oh, well good luck,” you said, giving him an apologetic smile. 

He nodded, a deep and exasperated sigh reverberating from his lungs as a pained smile crept onto his face. He ran his hands through his coco curls, giving you a thumbs up and watching you exit out the door.

You and Luigi’s relationship, or for better words connection, was strictly professional. You barely saw him outside of the days when he wasn’t assisting in Harrison’s class, and if you did happen to catch glimpses of him on campus he was always preoccupied with something else.

Strictly academic and professional.

Right?

What a lack of judgment. The red hot sin and embarrassment that would crowd Luigi’s face whenever you stood too near. He felt almost dirty in a sense; after all, it wasn’t entirely ethical to crush on your “bosses” students.

But when your eyes honed in on him like the only object in the room, picking him apart piece by piece and ripping away each thread of his clothes with your eyes, it was hard not to get a little warm on the nose. Day by day and piece by piece, he could feel himself getting sidetracked with your memory.

So when he leaned back in his chair, staring down at the papers he had only halfway penetrated with red ink and comments, he thought of you bouncing back into the room with your not-so-secret lies of confusion.

The smooth sound of pen ink gliding across paper filled the room, scribbles of minus three and half credit echoing subtly through the empty classroom. He murmured under his breath as he wrote, flipping back and forth 

between the rubric and the long pages of text as his eyes slowly began to glaze over.

There was fire burning every inch of his body; lustful and jeering in his ears as he did everything in his power to repent against the thoughts of how gorgeous you would look crying on this desk while you panted from overstimulation. The scandal…the pleasure. The taboo of the situation left him with a bitter and tangy taste on the tip of his tongue as he swallowed.

thump-thump-thump-thump

Your shoes patted the cheap carpet halls as you made your way back into the class, locking your eyes onto a hunched-over Luigi with a pen between his pointer and middle finger. Back and forth, he flicked the pen repeatedly as he took deep breaths in a last-ditch effort to self-soothe.

“Hey,” you murmured, placing your bag down next to the desk and your notebook on the opposite end of his stack of papers. “How’s grading going?”

His eyes jetted upwards, locking onto yours with a small smile. “Horrible!” He started with a contrastingly happy grin. “I’ve hated every second of it. How are you doing this afternoon?”

You stifled a chuckle, pulling your mouth down from the shameless smirk that had snuck onto your expression. Dry, dry-humored man.

“I’m doing okay! Been working on my notes. I suck at taking them, I feel like I never know what’s important to write” you mused, flipping through your notebook until the most recent lecture notes came into view.

You peered over the pages, trying to see if you could see your own answers under his inspection. Your eyes darted over the pages, snooping around names and numbers before he slowly shifted his hand to cover the scores. He let out a small huff of a chuckle, clicking his pen closed before setting the stack of papers to the side.

“Did I do okay? You’re giving me anxiety, Mangione” you joked, pulling up a chair in front of the desk.

He covered his mouth, failing to prevent a smile from creeping on his face as he giggled a little. 

Oh fuck.

“You passed, but you’re one of like…five who did by an actual hair. I actually graded yours first cuz I knew you’d be stopping by again. We can go over it now if you want! Unless you wanna do notes first?” He offered, flicking his long and skinny fingers through the many many pieces of paper until he plucked out yours.

You thought about it for a moment, thinking it over in your head. It was kind of hard to focus on anything with him sitting so close…those glossy black-framed glasses sitting just right on his face. And oh my god his slender and large hands—

“Yeah, can we go over the quiz first?” You blurted, leaning to the side of your chair to retrieve your pencil case from the front compartment of your backpack.

“Sure,” he said, placing the quiz in front of you for you to review. 

You looked it over, thanking whatever divine force had your back that day for somehow clearing a path for you to even pass this quiz. You were surprised that some of your answers were even correct, shit, you might as well have said you took the quiz with your eyes closed. That’s how gone you were.

“I’m not gonna lie…the quiz was kind of unfair,” he started, his eyebrows shooting up momentarily in amused disbelief. “I wrote maybe 50 percent of this, so I’ll help you with what I wrote, but I cannot help you on Harrison’s part. Sometimes I think we don’t even speak the same language.”

You nodded, letting out a deep sigh before flipping the packet back to the front page and handing it back to him. You knew then and there you were gonna be there for a while, even if your intentions were to just pop by and review fake notes. At least you were spending time together!

He broke everything down piece by piece, watching as you jotted notes down in your spiral notebook and wrote down little tidbits of info along the way. And when he was done, he took a sip of water, leaned forward, and gazed over what you had written in your notebook.

“Huh. Weird, I thought you said you couldn’t take notes?” He chuckled, standing up and walking around the desk to lean over your shoulder. You could feel the warmth radiating off of him; comforting and affectionate like a man raised by gentle hands.

“Two birds with one stone” he chuckled, the sound echoing in the shell of your ear as you fought the urge to squeal and panic like a child denied their lifeline of sugar. “Don’t worry, I’ll still help you go over them.”

“I feel like I did better cuz you watched me take them,” you chuckled, instantly relaxing as he made his way to the long whiteboard, popping open a red marker as he began to jot down the topic, and a few empty bullet points under. 

“So this is how I take notes…excuse my handwriting,” he said, jotting down the main point, key details, and miscellaneous info.

He was so shaky. His hands were like a humbug and his mind was taunting his sanity. Your eyes trailed after him, pausing to linger on a specific feature of his before following him again.

It drove him up a wall. He wasn’t even registering the conversation happening between you two as he gave pointers and red-ink examples.

“Oh I have another question,” you blurted, now leaning against the front of the desk to see the board a little closer. 

“Yeah? What’s up?” He answered, turning around and leaning against the whiteboard.

“What’s your type? You seem like you like smart girls.” 

He paused, putting the cap on the marker before jutting his bottom lip out slightly. He pretended to think about it, processing your bold statement. His heart thumped in his ears, loud and fervent as arteries in his muscles threatened to pop.

He made his way over to the side of the desk, placing his hands down on the oak and leaning forward. He was so close, but oh so far. The once dark and charcoal-brown eyes revealed themselves to be a deep hazel, glimmering with satisfaction and authority.

“Well, I don’t think I have a type per se,” he said, adjusting his readers with the knuckle of his pointer finger. “I just like women with goals and a strong sense of self,” he smiled.

“I have goals,” you murmured, glancing over his features with a newfound feeling of hunger. 

“Do you, now?” He mused, tilting his head to the side as he slowly rounded the corner of the desk to stand in front of you.

By now it was beginning to get dark outside. The ember-like orange glow of the various lamps around the room, and the back lights gave their best effort to keep the dimly lit room visible. His heavy hands came to rest next to each of your thighs, the palms of his hands flat on the smooth desk while he stared down at you.

“You’re…adorable” he smiled, propping you up on the desk and watching you closely.

Darkness kissed your features, the soft and lively look of your skin spurred his desire to ravage you whole like an animal. He stood between the gap in your legs, knowing that he wasn’t going to make the first move regardless. He knew he’d lose a lot of respect from Harrison if he kept going, and he knew that you had a lot to lose by sleeping with him.

Fair trade.

He would have expected you to kiss him, make a comment about his glasses, or even squeal and say you can’t do it anymore. But what he didn’t expect —

Was for you to jet your hips forward, rolling them teasingly against his half-hard bulge. His brows pinched together at the fleeting friction, tingles of pleasure shooting through him for a fraction of a second. His eyes were glued onto where you briefly connected before they shot back up to stare into yours, an even mix of disgruntled desperation.

“You…you’re very bold. Very very bold,” he chuckled, gathering your face between his thumb and the remainder of his fingers, squishing the fat of your cheeks until your teeth resisted his strength.

You smiled, a squished and crooked one as he mashed his lips against yours. A brutal, teeth-and-tongue-filled fight for dominance occurred in your mouths as spit and sin were exchanged on this very desk. Horny and rampant like untouched virgins left alone after hours.

You whined in his mouth when he pushed you back, shoving your back flat against the desk and sending papers floating to the floor with the grace of a mother swan. You had no time to adjust to the way he began to consume you, coaxing every meek and subtle sound of pleasure from your mouth as he slid his knee between your legs to nudge up against your achy cunt.

He pulled away, taking a brief intermission for some much-needed air as he slid his readers off the strong bridge of his nose. Red with fury, and pink with lust, his cheeks and nose flared in the faint orange light as he basked in the way your chest rose and fell with each heavy breath.

“Words, c’mon. I know you have them…” he urged, his knee growing more insistent at your crotch, plucking strings of moans and whines from your orchestral lungs.

“Please…need you so bad,” you panted, your hands coming up to your face to conceal the way your eyes threatened to roll to the back of your head.

“I know you need me, that’s why you came to office hours!” He joked with a patronizing grin, his large hand linking around your wrists to pull them away from your face.

“It’s not funny, I want you inside of me!” You whined, fighting the urge to throw a fit when he gave you an imitation of a sympathetic click of his tongue and a condescending little “awww.”

He chuckled, lowering his knee back to stationary before hooking his hand into your jeans, glancing up at you for confirmation. He let out a scowl when you only nodded.

“I didn’t teach you for months for you to not use all the many words I taught you” he warned, slowly withdrawing his hand from your jeans.

“No, no it’s ok! Take them off please” you said, immediately grabbing his wrist to prevent him from withdrawing his hand from you.

He nodded, undoing the button on your jeans and sliding them down to your lower thighs. He took his time fidgeting around with your puffy clit through the cotton of your panties, up and down with the pad of his thumb before experimenting with small and tight circles.

He listened to the way your moans grew in volume, ending in shrill whimpers the longer he teased the sensitive pearl. He chuckled, an amused smile spreading up to his face.

“Alright, I’m sorry, I’m being mean” he giggled, pulling your panties to the side and toying around with the sticky and glossy wetness that glossed your pretty folds.

His middle and ring fingers pushed into you slowly, in and out with languid and almost practiced strokes to that spongy spot inside of you that had you seeing stars. Cosmos aligned, universes collided, and galaxies crumbled before you as he learned the astronomy of your body.

“So tense…you’re never gonna take me if you keep being this tight” he chuckled, picking up the pace with his fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m gonna have to loosen you up a little. I don’t wanna hurt my favorite student.”

You couldn’t understand why he was apologizing then. With his fingers plunging in and out of you so deliciously, the sloshy and obscene noises mingling with your moans of euphoria ushered any thoughts or coherency in one ear and out the other. There was no way you were hearing him right now, and he knew that.

“Stay with me,” he urged, his free hand seeking refuge over your hipbone. “You’re too pretty to have such an empty mind…but don’t worry I’ll teach you again.”

You tightened around his fingers, his knuckles prodding and pleasuring your gummy walls as you attempted to close your legs around his wrist, much to Luigi’s dismay.

“No, don’t do that. You wanted this. You wanted this for who knows how long, and you’re gonna take everything I give you, okay?” He said, the hand that once rested on your hip coming down to hold your knee, prying your legs open.

You whined, your vision going white with snow as your breath caught in your throat— barely hushed cries of his name rushing from your lips as you soaked his knuckles in milky white ecstasy.

“Just like that…mhm, look at me?” he purred, relishing in the dazed and confused expression that washed over your features. But he wasn’t slowing down.

His fingers were still pistoning in and out of you, and the overstimulation began to bite and nip at your sensitive and puffy cunt. It was deliciously painful, tears pricking and rolling down your cheeks as your lips parted in loud moans. You attempted to scoot back, push his hand away, anything. It just wasn’t working.

“Don’t run from it…I’m not done,” he commanded, holding under your leg to keep you tugged in place. “So pretty…” he purred, his eyes transfixed on the sight of your weeping cunt begging for more while you begged for less.

It was like he was hyperfixated on your moans. His ears pressed to hear more like you weren’t directly in front of him, listening carefully to every single sound you made.

You cried, twitched, came, and writhed as he carried on for what felt like hours. Two turned three, three turned four, and four pulled into five as you felt your eyes completely cross and roll into the back of your mind. So far into the dark depths of pleasure, you could still faintly see the ghost of a smirk on Luigi’s lips in the back of your mind.

Any form of coherency was beginning to leave you as the painful euphoria clouded your mind and squeezed the oxygen out of your body. He was everywhere, cooing and. mocking in your ear as he reduced you to your simplest form. Babbles of "I can't take it" and pained whined as he took what he wanted from you.

“I know, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” he purred, an unapologetic grin on his face as he coaxed you into one final orgasm. “I’m done, I’m done. I promise.”

He laughed, this one lacking his usual boyish charm and innocence. This one was mean but warm and loving, like watching a nostalgic home video. He watched you, twitchy and sensitive as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you. 

“Good girl, you did so well for me. C’mon, get up. We’re not finished with your notes. If you can show me you understand the material I’ll let you get all of me.”

[mrs-weasley-reid]

TEN'S A GOOD NUMBER

Aaron Hotchner x psychiatrist!reader

Synopsis: After Aaron's traumatizing encounter with Peter Lewis, he's sent to you, but who knew a profiler is the worst patient you'll ever have? Warning: enemies to lovers— ish(?) angst. a dash of fluff. light mentions of death and trauma. a few curses. went ballistic— it's lengthy, so pace yourself. A/N: loosely follows Mr. Scratch timeline for three seasons.

Monday, May 4, 8:34 AM

Aaron Hotchner sits across from you.

He studies you in every detail like he's about to take an exam, and you're the topic.

The weight of your scribbles—light, almost featherlike. Ink leaves a soft trail of words, a map of your thoughts, your perception of him.

The speed of your hand. Swift and elegant. Each movement portrays a scene in a movie. As if they're telling a quiet story, your story he is yet to unravel.

The way you deprive him of eye contact.

What are you hiding?

Why can't you look him in the eye?

The occasional nod to remind him that you're listening—not like anything's coming out from his end.

In conclusion, just about everything you do, really.

To Aaron, you're a cheat sheet. His way back to the field, to work—the part of his life that cannot be halted despite the need for a break.

"Your hand is heavier," Aaron vaguely goads.

You silently stare at him, waiting for the rest of his thoughts to spill out of his mouth.

"Usually, you write like you're afraid to puncture the paper, but just right now, your strikes are deeper. Your grip on your pen is also tighter. Am I annoying you?"

Creative.

You think to yourself as he rakes his eyes down the canvas of your face, blank and land of nothing but mirroring eyes.

Although you prefer Aaron's comment about your new lipstick and how it makes your skin glow—something about your prospect of finding a lover—fifteen minutes into your session. You didn't peg him as a man who knows his lipstick shades, but you stand corrected as he says coral with the utmost confidence for a man who wears his tie like a choker.

Aaron does it all the time. Every five minutes, he says one thing he's noticed about you and then proceeds to zip his mouth, denying you details about him like you're some hired criminal paid to torture the King's hidden fortune out of him.

And as per your entertainment, you'd do something out of your character to throw him off. If you can laugh at his gullibility, you would.

His goal is to intimidate you. Pressure you. Make you tick like every other serial killer he's encountered. Because he'd really rather be across an unsub than you. Aaron would rather be the one to ask questions and not you. In his eyes, you're no better than a small-town detective ignorantly interrogating a serial killer for a cheap gas station robbery, unaware of the skeletons in his closet.

At this moment, Aaron ponders why he agreed to meet with you once a week only to sit in almost absolute silence for about an hour, then go about his day like he hadn't just wasted minutes of his—and your—life.

It's always the same.

He arrives, flaunts his profiling skills for an accumulated total of twelve minutes, and then sits across you like a rock for the remaining forty minutes.

Aaron could've talked more, but...

He despises you.

Well, not you, per se. He despises the profession, and you just happen to choose it as your career. Nonetheless, Aaron generalizes and includes you on his list.

He finds it unnecessary and a waste of one's valuable time. Presenting a series of well-thought-out facts that he's sure Spencer Reid will enjoy. A list of reasons why talking to a psychiatrist isn't as helpful as people perceive it to be.

Aaron spits the words 'family' and 'friends' for the sake of ease and comfort as if he doesn't flinch at the words 'your father' and his face hasn't been frozen into a permanent stern. Because why talk to someone who doesn't know you when there are people who know you best? He lies through his teeth. He lies to himself.

Then, there's you.

You don't know him enough to trust his lies.

"Profiling me won't get you cleared," you state out of the blue. "This is our seventh session, and you haven't said anything." You add, finally lifting your gaze.

Aaron feels taken aback. He'd never encountered a shrink with such pride at their job—they managed to infuriate him. You infuriate him.

Now that you've granted him the wish—your eyes meeting his—it's having an effect on him instead. One that he wishes he didn't feel creep under his skin, stimulating the anxiety he's worked hard to ignore.

Still, Aaron squares his shoulder, "Nothing is wrong with me," He claims like he's not feeling the pit of his stomach churn with every word. "I'm only here for the formalities." He says.

"Ahh," You deadpan, pulling your eyes down on your clipboard. Hushed scribbles echo in the room. "Is that what you told, Dr. Briar? Or Dr. McCormick? Stiles doesn't seem to remember you at all—"

"They deemed me fit to go back to work, which you don't seem to realize." Aaron cuts you off. He doesn't notice the slight lilt of his voice. How a vein peeked on his forehead as he furrows his brows.

You have an effect on him, and Aaron's in strong denial.

"How?" You lean a bit, propping against your lap. It's the first time he's ever let himself tear out of his 'I don't break' shell. You consider it a crumb of a breakthrough and a laughable stain on your pride.

Challenging his stability—you raise your brows—makes him tick.

A faux frown draws on your face—patronizing, "Did you play a staring contest, and they lost against you?" You notice the little twitch of his eye masked as a blink.

It's a little unprofessional to provoke your patient, but you do, anyway.

This one's been particularly adamant about manipulating you into permitting him back to work like you were born yesterday. You think it hilarious how smug he's been for the past six sessions. It is as if you didn't spend almost half of your life devoted to the study of behavior. Like you hadn't figured out his plans from the get-go.

Profilers. They catch a criminal out of idea of sorts, and they think they can read everyone. It makes you want to laugh while pointing at him.

Aaron stares at you with his usual stoic expression, intimidating eyes filled with unforeseen horrors, and a straight mouth that's no use in your four walls.

He decides then that he hates you with a passion.

You feel a vibration on your wrist, "Would you look at that? Your time's up, Hotchner." You withdraw, straightening your back as you scribble yet another word Aaron is curious to know.

If he only knew you're not really writing anything new about the nature of his mental state or anything legible at all, you imagine Aaron exploding like a stack of case files blown by harsh wind.

But can he blame you when he's given you nothing to write?

"Agent Hotchner," He corrects with gritted teeth. Aaron's jaw clenches as he pierces his gaze through you. His hands intertwined with each other as if he's preventing himself from clawing at you.

You smile at him, "In this room, you're just Aaron Hotchner. A patient. A case." You know the specific word will piss him off, much less the motherly tone you paired it with.

A tactic. Unlike him, you don't need a team of agents to get a rise out of a culprit. The bare idea of you, a stranger who has access to his life on a piece of paper, is enough a stimuli to get an individual aiming at your neck.

"So, between you and me, I think you should start talking if you ever want to fly to wherever city your team wanders in. The longer you take, the less progress we make, and the less progress you make, the more possible that the bureau will assign a new psychiatrist for you." You say nonchalantly, letting his anger lead him right into your trap.

The words float like small fire specks of dust, both dazzling and dangerous to the eyes. Getting assigned to a new psychiatrist is like getting an easy case directly handed to Aaron. However, it also means he'll have to restart his psych evaluation process, and he knows firsthand how time-consuming that is.

"But, then again, who knows? Maybe the next fella will let you slide like the others did. Or you'll have to attend a series of sessions again for a lengthy psych evaluation. I've got friends too, you know? They might do me a favor and make your life more… difficult." You're bluffing. In no way, shape, or form will you jeopardize his health, even if Aaron's the most stubborn patient you have ever met in your lifetime.

His nose flares as he stands up. You know that he's done and murdered you in his mind at the way he's glaring at you with invisible daggers, but you play it well and act blameless.

Aaron marches out of your office with blazing hatred. You watch as he dulls every vicinity he's stepped into like death taking a stroll. A part of you is apologetic to his colleagues. They'll be having one hell of a day.

Retreating back inside your office, you plop on your chair behind your desk as a heavy sigh escapes your lips.

You stare at Aaron Hotchner's patient chart.

"What am I going to do with you?" You ask rhetorically in the air.

Aaron Hotchner is—for you at least—a special case. A case so intricate you had to be careful how you'd tread the water, wary of its fragile ripples.

When Aaron's chart landed on your desk, you immediately knew that he'd be toilsome. He'd make it his goal to skip the talk and jump back onto another case. The same routine he did with his old therapists and psychologist, anyone that was able to write a note and say he's fine when he's really not—never have been for a long time.

You already had enough patients on your plate, but you just couldn't say no to your favorite Italian patient; you only had one. You're the best bureau-mandated psychiatrist. His words, not yours.

Then, again, you never fail to mentally brag about how easily you read Aaron just from his chart, his image, and the first step he took to get inside your office. You read him like an open toddler's book, a piece of cake.

During the first session, you learn how badly Aaron's last case had affected him. The intonation of his voice. The way he'd shake his hand, your hand. His scorn. His fiddling fingers.

It's amazing how he's managed to divert his anger towards you instead of the man who traumatized him.

Melodic ringing snaps you out of your trance.

Aaron Hotchner might just get what he wants.

Sunday, May 10, 11:51 PM

A sniffle tickles your nose as you lay flat on the carpet floor of your apartment.

Your face stings from tear stains, and you muse how horrid you must look after your makeup runs dry. Your chunky heels were still on. In a minute or two, you expect one of your feet to cramp.

The day has been hostile towards you.

The mind, which used to be an oasis of positive thoughts, has gone draught. Sleep begins to blur your vision, and you don't hesitate to let it take over.

Until a bombarding knock jolts you up.

"I'm here! I'm here! Calm down!" You shout as you swing the door open. A familiar man stands in front of you with a dour face. Your eyebrows narrow tightly, "Mr. Hotchner—"

"What did you write?!" Aaron badgers as he storms inside your apartment like he owns the place. He pivots on the balls of his feet once he's reached your living room, glowering at you with scalding fury. "I was relieved to know that you released me from your care and looked forward to my clearance. So, tell me why a random therapist called me this morning to confirm an appointment I didn't even know I had. What did you write on my report that I have to go through this again for the second time? Is dealing with your sick games not enough? I'm fine. I know I'm fine. I'm straight in the head to go back in the field. I aced the psych evaluation questions. Your sessions are the problem. You're the problem." His ears, face, and neck are burning red. If he's a cartoon character, you imagine he'd be steaming with smoke by now.

Quite surprised; you're standing speechless. You're watching Aaron like he's a crazy old hag yapping about the Revolutionary War and how she hates not having the power to shoot every redcoat for the sake of rage.

You head towards your sofa, taking a seat.

Aaron examines you in confusion, furrowing his brows.

After a moment, you look at him expectantly. "Don't be shy, Mr. Hotchner. By any means—" you nod towards the armchair across you, glancing back and forth between him and the empty space "—continue with your thoughts. You already started. Might as well let it all out."

He only clenches his hands inside his pockets as he bores holes into your head.

What a sad little man.

You scoff in your mind.

You lean against the back of the sofa, tilting your head to meet dagger-like brown eyes aiming at you. "No? Suit yourself, then." You shrug, feeling the soft cushions under your palms.

"Let me remind you that I'm a federal agent, and I can make your life a living hell if I want to." He threatens, glaring at you as if the twitch of his eye is enough to make you combust into thin air.

But all you see is a child on a tantrum, deprived of getting what he wants.

"Answer my question. What. Did. You. Write?" He growls.

Silence coats the two of you.

His heavy breathing fills the deafening air. Your nonchalance fuels his hatred more than ever and the sentiment is beginning to emit from both ends. It takes a lot out of you to think of multiple ways to sprinkle some salty sense onto him without stinging his wounds.

One thing you learned well enough in time is how good Aaron is when pushing someone's buttons. A perk of his prosecutor days and seasoned by his bureau career.

He's just troubled.

He's just in denial of his own pain.

You chant the words in your head—uncertain of its purpose. Detachment ironically detaches from your senses like old velcro.

"You're not the first agent in my office, Mr. Hotchner. And frankly, you should be thanking me for taking you in. Unlike your old therapists, I actually read through your chart and took the time to understand you to the best of my ability. I cared—" Shocked as he is, your eyes subtly widen.

Before you can continue Aaron speaks over you, "I do not care about your pity. What I wanted was for you to do your damn job and clear me back to work. But that's just little to no pay for a shrink, isn't it? You need messed up people to stay messed up so they can continue knocking on your door." A clear hint of a demeaning smirk flashes across his face.

The sheer irreverence makes you dizzy. The calm snaps, banishing kindness and composure out the window. And rage knocks on your door.

"That's the problem. You don't care. You don't care about yourself." Your tone is sharp—stern.

You knew. You knew from the moment his file thudded on your wooden desk. The moment SSA David Rossi charmed his way to get your favor. You know that Aaron Hotchner does what he believes is right. Not because the unit chief title has gotten in his head. No. Not the slightest. But because he only cares about his values and people.

And you're neither.

It's not you to hold grudges. So, you had it down and set before you accepted Rossi's request. You had it tattooed in your mind that no matter how sharp-tongued and insensitive the man before you might be, he's still just a man under the weight of the world's greatest horrors.

You cannot break. You're not allowed to break.

Pieces of you shatter at the realization that some patients under your care inevitably slip away from your fingers. How your promised oath to do no harm did nothing—not enough to stop the monsters that haunt the world. Not enough to stop you, Aaron's psychiatrist, from dumping your own frustration onto him the same way he's currently doing to you.

But you're not Aaron's psychiatrist today. You're not anything today. You're not on the clock. And no one except Aaron—to your demise—will ever witness such an ugly sight. If ever he shuts up about his dilemma, that is.

"I did my job exactly as I should." You declare, licking the bottom of your lips. Damned the Hippocratic Oath. You wonder if the healing gods will forgive you.

You really shouldn't say the words that are about to leave your mouth, but you've been taking whatever hostility he's got for the last two months; the capacity has reached its limit. A little bit of harshness wouldn't hurt, would it?

"When are you going to admit that the reason you can't sleep at night is not because of all the serial killers you claim I prevent you from catching?" You finally stand. You are a few inches shorter, yet you have never felt taller than you do right now.

You grit your teeth as you move closer to Aaron, almost a breath away, tiptoeing. "When will you admit that the mighty SSA Aaron Hotchner, unit chief, doesn't blink, not once, because he's afraid he'd become the very thing he promised to put away." You raise your brows, challenging him.

Aaron's face morphs into bewilderment and perturbation. His brows are sewn shut. His jawline pops out as he grinds his teeth.

Resentment. Fury. Vexation. Chagrin.

All Aaron felt was anger.

Antagonized.

A walking tower of pure acrimony, finger-pointing towards the innocent.

"Don't you dare compare me to those— I'm anything but." He towers over you, losing his words through the stream of lividity flooding all over his senses.

"Do you really believe that?"

Aaron studies your face. It's different. It's raw and maimed. A squeeze of guilt whispers, but he shoves it quickly.

"What did you write?" He asks once more, earning a scoff out of you.

You step back, staring straight into his glare. Crossed arms tight against your chest. Brows rest over your deadpan eyes.

"While SSA Aaron Hotchner is proficient at his skills and rather placid in physically and mentally challenging situations, I strongly recommend further evaluation in psychotherapy as his emotional capacity is at its limits. The stress accumulated from the job itself has given him little to no time to allow himself the indulgence to properly process certain impacts of the stimulus he encounters on the job. Will update after further observation. Is what I wrote… so far."

You pause.

"Aaron Hotchner is an insufferable, pompous idiot who's afraid of nothing but himself. He is incapable of stepping off his pedestal and refuses to cooperate while complaining about the consequences he himself caused. He has been through enormous trauma. It will be torture to try and help him cope properly. I do not want him in my care as he is a danger to his own progress, and I don't want any part of it. Is what I wanted to write."

Silence.

For him to reflect.

For you to breathe.

Aaron's frozen before you. A pale statue bleached under the moon's harsh reality. Words that used to be superficial insecurities float in the wind of truth, forming into a cage he's sentenced for life.

Your fuse still runs—a long time coming from two months of his deliberate disrespect. The silence annoys you, so you break it. "Excuse my hostility. No one's invaded my privacy and barged into my household at such an unreasonable hour before." The impassive smile on your lips can haunt anyone.

Maybe you've gone too far.

Maybe it's evil to say such blunt things to someone fragile.

But Aaron started the countdown. He lit the fuse. Now, you're exploding right before his eyes, reaping what he sowed. And he's forced to eat up all the debris.

His eyes twitch, scanning your face for any sign of bluff, any sign of fallacy. Any sign that he successfully pissed you off and your words were nothing but overwhelmed impulse.

"I—" he closes his mouth, then agape. Any sign. Aaron will take anything besides the forthright expression on your face. He inhales, "I'm sorry." The sound dies before it can roll off his tongue.

It's like watching a bully shrink into the tiniest man who's ever lived.

Okay, maybe you were a little bit brutal.

You gulp as guilt creeps along your veins, wishing that someone out there would just do you both a favor and snipe you out before the embarrassment settles.

Drawing in a gentle breath, you take another step back from Aaron with a delicate voice, "You're not starting a new evaluation, but you're not done either. I transferred you under someone else's care because of personal reasons. My life doesn't revolve around you, Mr. Hotchner. So, if you have nothing else to say, go home." Your eyes drift to the vast selection of objects in your living room to diffuse the growing pity you can't help but harbor.

Only then does Aaron discern his impulsivity. Internally arguing with himself as he allows himself to look at you. One thing he's never done since the moment he met you with screwed brows and unwavering bias. His gaze instantly softens like a thick fog around him finally dissipates. Like he's achieved a clearer vision.

The first thing he notices is the state of your face. The dry mascara that drew faded stripes down your cheeks. Your puffy eyes are now faint pink, but he recalls them being red when he arrived.

Then Aaron brings his attention to your black dress. It's a simple formal, mesh midi dress, but he admits how it elegantly fits you. But he doesn't say it aloud because there's only one reason why you'd wear such an article of depressing clothing.

As if your words and his own realizations aren't enough, he gets a glimpse of the clock on your wall that reads 12:03 AM.

His blood suddenly stops flowing—skin clammy and pale. Aaron's lightheaded from guilt and penitence.

Without another word, you lead him towards the door, swinging it open. The past 24 hours already drained you, and Aaron just about made it fifty times worse. All you wanted was to get a shuteye.

Aaron swallows the shame and makes his way out. Before he leaves, though, he turns to face you once more. Genuine curiosity pinches his brows.

"Why didn't you just clear me out like the others did if I was such a difficult case?" The word tastes bitter in his mouth. What used to be a desired flavor turned rotten on his palette.

He asks with utter softness, leaving you skeptical to respond.

"Same reason why you kept attending my sessions even though you clearly hated it." You slightly close the door, only leaving enough space for the two of you to see each other.

He looks at you like the answer's all over your face but written in some foreign language he's not familiar with. Aaron barely opens his mouth when you answer the question in his mind.

"You needed a place where you can just be."

The door shuts.

Friday, June 19, 11:02 PM

"I didn't know where to go."

You pore at Aaron Hotchner with nothing but a flimsy robe to prevent his imagination from going rampant—and dirty.

It's eleven in the evening. It's been one month since you last saw him. It's been a month since he barged into your apartment like an entitled brat. It's been a month since you let your emotions take over. It's been a month since the two of you revealed parts of yourselves either of you don't dare think of.

A month and no contact.

You didn't wonder; just hoped and prayed that Aaron finally finds it in him to let go of the emotional turmoil that's torturing the soul out of his body.

Sighing, you step aside and let him in, closing the door behind you like it's normal to stop by one's ex-psychiatrist's apartment in the middle of the night without prior notice and, most importantly, without meter to run the minutes he's inconveniencing you.

Aaron walks in, and the heavy humidity of arousal immediately hits him.

Oh.

Well...

If he had something to say, Aaron kept his mouth shut. He is at fault for driving straight to your place like he's your bestest friend. So, he doesn't mention it, ignoring the fact that you're barely clothed.

Besides, after your last interaction with him, Aaron's certain he didn't have any prerogative in how you'd like to spend your Friday evening.

"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute." Your steps are light behind him—feet nimbly grazing the wooden floor.

He turns to face you but quickly averts his gaze to avoid the glistening sight of your thighs. "Thank you..." He does his best to sound normal, choking in between syllables.

Aaron begins to regret his decision. Though, not enough to leave your place.

You disappear in the corner of the hallway. Allowing Aaron to finally release the breath he didn't know he was holding.

With you out of sight, his mind deliberately wanders...

What were you doing?

Aaron shakes his head vigorously like a worm under a storm of salt. The thought is undiscovered—untouched territory, forbidden to be exact. Should he form such thoughts, he'll do it somewhere else or rather about someone else.

Just as he caters to the sudden dizziness caused by his action, a man, half-dressed, walks past him, cursing under his breath and buttoning his shirt. Aaron's eyes widen a little, keeping his stoic face.

Oh, that's what you were doing.

Ick—as Aaron would like to call your visitor—had brown and curly, unruly hair. He was tall and definitely had a face, which, Aaron assumes, is nothing like the one he envisioned you're attracted to.

Somehow not a pleasant discovery compared to what he attempted to imagine—you, alone.

Ick looks at Aaron with a scoff echoing out of his throat, "Oh, what a surprise! She's a slut." He states smugly.

"Or she just wants someone better." The words spill out without hesitation, fired on sight. Aaron doesn't know where the boldness came from as he leans against the seat with a cocky smirk on his face. Definitely no more perplexed than the uncertainty of anger boiling inside of him. He glares at the man either way.

The man scoffs again before leaving with a couple more insults that Aaron thinks he's lucky to whisper, or your visitor would've left your apartment in an ambulance.

Ick slams the door, shaking the vase on the accent chest by the entrance.

Where did that come from?

He's questionably not as big of a hater as he was before, but Aaron can't determine the motivation that made him act the way he just did with a person who has business with you, which he should have no interest in.

Moments later, you come back, fully clothed, in an oversized hoodie and a pair of wide-leg linen pants. Comfy and a 180 contrast on how you dress at work, plus the garments you had on minutes ago.

You make a beeline to your kitchen, "Water or scotch?" You holler out, opening cabinets with a creek on their hinges.

The question is rhetorical. You place a glass with brown liquid glinting under the warm ambient light on the coffee table in front of Aaron, then plop on the armchair across from him, catering your own glass.

He stares between you and the glass while you kiss yours, never breaking your gaze. You hum in delight, making a popping sound with your lips.

Aaron opens his mouth and then closes it, falling into a cycle like a fish underwater. How should he explain himself? How does one explain why they're bothering their ex-psychiatrist past working hours? After making a scene a month ago? He swallows the thick void in his throat.

"Don't talk, just drink. Sit here for an hour. Then, go home." You say, opening up a book that's been sitting on the table since he arrived.

Aaron feels a surge of relief. He reaches for the drink and lets the smoky taste trail down his throat without hesitation. He wouldn't have guessed you as a fan of scotch—or anything not clear or fruity. This is the first he's seen you without some sort of filter he can't read through, and the observation prints you under a new light.

The silence comforts him. The occasional scrape of paper against paper with each flip of a page provides him reassurance. The company he finds within your presence gives him solace.

You let him be. Asked no questions, reading in peace like he was just any other friend who needed company.

He does as you said. Indulging in the hour of tranquility and stillness. His nerves tame. And he forgets why he went to you in the first place.

Why did he go to you?

Of all people. Of all the friends he brags about. The family he cherishes. His feet dragged—drove him to you.

The onerous unit chief chose to wander to your front door, sipping scotch as he enjoyed the silence and absence of others' guilting worry and constant craving to make him feel better when all he wanted was peace and letting the ache pass in gradual acceptance.

By the end of the hour, you call him a cab with the instructions for him to pick up his car the next day.

Aaron slept effortlessly that night.

Saturday, October 24, 9:24 PM

Aaron expected some sort of rejection or for you to slam the door close, or worse, ignore him as soon as you see his face through the peephole.

One can only tolerate a couple of unannounced visits from an insufferable ex-patient, right? He's surprised you haven't called the cops on him.

He skims your face for any sign of irritation or annoyance as soon as you reveal yourself behind your door, standing next to it to give him way. Aaron saw nothing but impatience.

You knit your brows, slightly tilting your head at his frozen build outside the frame of your door. "Well? Are you stuck or something? Get in, Hotchner—" You turn before you can even finish talking, disappearing down the small entryway.

He turns deaf for a moment. Your voice rings in his ears as if a bomb had just popped the only working drum he had left.

Hotchner.

Agent.

Mister—

Just Hotchner.

One simple change, and the light above your head suddenly looks brighter.

Like he's found something good. Something he can say he knows. Something he can trust(?)

"Don't forget to take your shoes off and shut the door!" You holler from the living room—unfazed.

Aaron flinches, snapping out of his trance. He wonders where you'd gone to, furrowing his brows, and yet enters your apartment with the permission you'd given him. He closes the door, pivoting on the soles of his dress shoes as he tentatively takes them off per your instructions.

He emerges back in your peripheral while you stare at the screen on your laptop, blue-filtered glasses back on. Your fingers hammer on the keys, soft sighs slipping past your lips every once in a while.

You glance at Aaron when his figure stays at the corner of your eye, cupping a coffee mug between your hands. "There's fresh coffee if you'd like. Are you hungry? I don't usually eat dinner, so I have nothing ready to eat, but I can whip something up." You blow over the surface of caffeine, and steam wafts on the tip of your nose.

"No—" He shakes his head, scoffing in confusion, "I'm sorry—"

"Apology accepted," You muffle into the mug.

Aaron's brows connect tighter, and his forehead creases. He looks at you like he's under an illusion, a hypnotic dream he can't quite distinguish.

"Hold on," He hoists his hand up as if to pause a scene in the movie. "I'm very confused. What is going on? Why are you being… casual and nice?"

"You say it like I'm incapable of human decency." Your back makes contact with the cushion of your sofa, pulling your legs close to your chest while one hand holds the handle of your mug. You roll your eyes when Aaron only stares at you, "Are you uncomfortable? Do you want to leave?"

Aaron shakes his head.

"Problem solved, then?" Confusion is still fresh on his blank face. You mentally smack your forehead. "There are patients who lack temporal sense, but turning them away when they clearly need immediate tending to would be a form of negligence on my part. So, feel at home." You theatrically stretch your arms, offering every corner of your space as his own.

"But I'm not your patient anymore. I've been back on duty for weeks." Aaron informs. Although he finds a place for his go bag on your floor.

If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he's about to stay for a sleepover—coming to your apartment late at night.

You wrinkle your nose, "Okay?" You look around as if someone else is in the room with you two. "Is that why you went here? You wanted to brag?"

Three months.

Aaron's been back to his usual routine for the past three months. And it's been four since he drank scotch on the very couch you're comfortably in.

A chuckle.

The sound tickles your ears, filling you with unexpected pride.

"No," Aaron shakes his head as the chuckle resonates through his chest. "I… I don't really know why I came here, if I'm being honest." He swallows air.

You nod, setting your laptop back on your lap. "Like I said, you're free to feel at home. Scotch is in the third cupboard. Coffee's in the pot. I've got some stuff to take care of, so help yourself." Your eyes are already fixed on the screen, hands jumping from one key to the other.

With your permission, Aaron ventures into your kitchen. Neat. Clean. Cozy. He somehow imagines you cooking as a hobby.

He settles for coffee. Asking you from the kitchen island if you'd like a refill—which you took without a thought, hoisting your cup up—and taking out a couple of his files to get a head start on his paperwork. He wasn't allowed to bring them outside the bureau's building, but it didn't matter at the moment.

Your apartment becomes a haven.

Aaron, for the first time in years, feels comfortable to slouch. He had no collection of when and how, but turns out he'd changed into a quarter-zip and one of his pajamas tucked in his go bag through the hours.

The two of you silently took care of your own thing until 1 AM strikes, and a yawn pulls you back into the earth.

You turn your head towards the kitchen to find Aaron scribbling over your kitchen island. He's sipping coffee—a fresh batch he made not long ago.

Stretching, you make your way past him. After placing the mug into the sink, you lean against it, crossing your arms as you stare at him. "Ten."

"What's that?" Aaron halts on his seat, lifting his head to look at you.

"I'm granting you ten visits," You announce.

"And that means?.."

Your face deadpans, and he does well at stifling a smile. "You can come here whenever you want—need, but only for ten free visits. It doesn't matter if it's late, too early, or unreasonable. I'm allowing you to knock on my door whenever you need. Any more than that, you have to attend my sessions in my office, where I get paid."

"What's the catch?" Aaron entwines his eyebrows, straightening his back as he props on the edge of the counter.

"No catch. Just one condition," You shift your weight on your other leg, "Don't come empty-handed. Food, drink, things, a person, anything. Bring something." Your brows hang on your forehead, anticipating any type of response.

Aaron weighs his choices. Calculated every possible outcome and benefit. He meets your eyes again. Index and thumb rubbing the growing stubble on his chin.

"Ten's a good number," He says as he nods.

Wednesday, March 2, 7:31 PM

Eleven months pass by in the blink of an eye.

It's the seventh time Aaron showed up without warning, and by this point in whatever acquaintance you two had, you aren't fazed or surprised anymore.

The fourth time he knocked on your door, he was carrying a hefty price of whiskey. An odd reason for a psychiatrist and a former patient to bond with, but you had no qualms about sipping neat whiskey that night.

At first, he stayed for an hour. Then, an hour turned into three. One time, a case hit too deep, and three became seven, but that only happened once—all you remember was a Wednesday night.

"Are you okay?"

Gentle sighs escape shivering lips. Tears pooling deep inside sockets.

One sharp sniff breaks it all.

You sob under Aaron's worried eyes as your grip on the knob almost snaps it off the door.

His brows twists and he reflexively yanks you by the back of your head into his chest, bringing you out of your apartment and into the complex's hallway.

"What happened?" He carefully inquires while he rests his chin atop your head.

You're a mess in his arms. Uncontrollable whimpers muffled in his soaked chest.

Aaron suggested that you two step inside for more privacy and heat, but he didn't complain when you two stayed frozen in the end of winter evening.

When it stops. The suffocating ache. You lightly push yourself off him, wiping the leftover tears off your cheeks—half of it already dampened his shirt.

Fifty-three minutes and seventeen seconds.

You cried to the point of dehydration.

"Sorry," you mutter, eyes down. "We should go inside if we don't want to catch hypothermia." You sniffle.

"Oh, we don't want that," Aaron attempts to joke, closely observing whether you'd react to it.

You didn't.

He closes the door behind him, following your figure as you practically drag yourself to your unofficial designated spot on the sofa.

"I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but would you like to talk about it?" He bites his inner cheek.

Nothing.

You only mold yourself into a ball.

Aaron hesitates whether to stay or leave you alone. It's true that you said he's welcome anytime, but you're definitely in no condition to entertain his own problems when you can't even look him in the eye the way you would, no matter how insufferable he is.

But he can't just leave you by yourself either. Nothing is stopping him, but he's not cold-blooded enough.

"It's not easy," Aaron fractures out of his trance at the sound of your small voice. You look at him with a tight-lipped smile. "This job, I mean."

You inhale a sharp breath, tucking your lower lip between your teeth. "I can be hopeful, positive, supportive… Everything to prove that a better life is possible, but at the end of the day, it's not my choice." You wryly chuckle. "It's the patient's. It's your decision to want to feel better. To want to change. To want to live—" You choke, and the tears flow once more.

"It's not about me, but I can't help feeling like a failure." Sobs spill off your lips, gasping for air. "I was supposed to make everything better. I was supposed to heal everyone and save everyone from whatever monster was hurting them. She said she's never felt so much better. She said it's the first time she felt so peaceful for years, Hotchner. She said she was looking forward to our next session. But she just… I didn't—" You gulp—struggling. "I didn't catch it. I didn't catch her lie. And hours later, I get a call from her mother telling me she— she died." Your hands shakily clasp your mouth to push the sobs back, but you fail.

Aaron doesn't know what to say.

But he knows what to feel.

He knows it well.

The guilt. The shame of never living up to your own promise. The pain of losing someone you swore to keep safe.

Then, it hits him like a wrecking ball.

How difficult of a patient was he before?

Has he ever made you cry before?

It's a stretch that you'd ever shed a tear over his stubbornness, but Aaron hopes you never did.

Because he's never seen anyone care so much despite getting all the hate. Despite taking all the blame. You stood your ground and became other people's foundation. You became their comfort.

You became the only thing that gave him serenity.

With the little time he's known you—a total of 43 genuine friendly hours—Aaron can testify in heaven that they had mistakenly dropped you into the earth. And he's never felt blessed to have someone like you. Never felt lucky enough to find someone with who he could feel broken as much as he could but never needed to save face.

So, he's heartbroken for you. And guilty that more than half of the time you'd known him, he made your passion a miserable experience.

And also guilty of developing feelings for you.

Saturday, August 13, 4:16 PM

"I'm not playing favorites, but your tech analyst definitely deserves better than being cooped up in the bureau's building." You say, plopping on the sofa with a soft bounce and a squeak from the coil spring.

Aaron hands you a glass of bourbon while sipping his own. Eyes fixated on the board on your coffee table. "I have no other choice. It's the only way to keep her safe. Unless you're willing to adopt her, I don't want to hear it." He chuckles, connecting his brows at the sight of your winning streak.

You two are playing Scrabble. It was Monopoly twenty minutes ago, but along the lines, you learned how butt-hurt a six-foot and two-inch man can get. Not an enlightening experience. It would have been two stars if you had to rate it.

So, you switched to Scrabble.

And Aaron is losing again.

Boy, were you so entertained.

He just came back from a fairly short case from Los Angeles. The case is not heavy or mentally draining—according to Aaron, but Jack's at a two-day sleepover, and Aaron has no idea how to spend the rest of his day—turning down Derek Morgan's and David Rossi's invitation to grab a drink at O'Keefe's with you in mind.

Aaron leans on the back of his seat. You don't know when your reclining armchair became his designated seat, but you noticed how lax he is in it and didn't question it further.

Months and months of relaxing stillness in your home—only ever full of bizarre surprises and irresistible joy whenever Aaron knocks at your door. With no means of communication or ever seeing each other at either workplace, Aaron's visits are welcomed but never fully anticipated. Thrilling.

Spelling the word 'loser' on the board with triple points, you bite the tissue inside your lower lip. "Maybe you can play Scrabble with her. Who knows, maybe you'll get lucky and win." You grin smugly at him.

Aaron gapes at you with a mixture of disbelief and merriment. He looks down on the flat entertainment, then back to you as he blinks. "You're cheating." He declares, pointing an accusatory finger at you.

A hearty laugh Aaron's never heard before roars out of you, and it's melodic to his ears. The meringue light spills through the forgotten open blinds of your window, painting your face with a dreamy filter. Aaron feels dizzy at the sight.

Your smile is contagious, and out of nowhere, his heart starts to pick up as if he'd caught whatever illness your radiant lips had by only staring at it. The loose hair over your forehead frames your face differently—different good. Like you'd been glowing, and the watts in your core mysteriously increased, so you're as bright as the sun and as warm as its light.

"You're just a sore loser. Suck it up, Hotchner." You shake with mirth, casually running dainty fingers along the curve of your ear.

"Aaron," He blurts too fast, too soon—too late to take back.

With a nonchalant shrug, you rephrase, "Suck. It. Up. Aaron." Much more emphasis and friskiness.

You tease him more about his lack of greatness in board games compared to his undeniable talent in every case the BAU encountered. But Aaron's already dazed by your lips calling his name.

Without either of you realizing it, 4 PM became AM.

Talk about abusing one's privileges. Aaron's moderately good at that. You conclude he's simply a strutting opportunist.

After the longest winning streak you've ever had in your life, you and Aaron decided to take a much-needed break and fell into silent reading—or, in your case, grooming your schedule for the next five months.

Midnight strikes along the grumble of Aaron's stomach. You two were too quiet. It echoed all over your apartment. Both of you fell into an obstreperous fit of laughter for another hour, stopping for a minute in between only to laugh some more as soon as you met each other's eyes.

Now, it's four in the morning. You're busy munching on Chinese takeout from a 24-hour restaurant Aaron called in. He claims he has handsome privilege courtesy of the owner, which you mockingly laughed at, to his dismay.

"I'm still terrified." He blurts.

The case must've been very difficult, then. He lied yesterday. However, at this point in your friendship, you expect him to do so, even if it's obvious.

You'd long given up on coaxing Aaron to talk about the case that brought him to your office. Or any other cases that got him knocking on your door at the most unreasonable hour. You thought that the best you could offer him was the comfort that no matter how beaten up he looked, you'd ask no questions and let him sort his boggled mind until he was ready to talk about it.

Looks like tonight's the moment. It only took more than a year, so it is not a big deal—to either of you, at least.

He looks at you when you remain quiet, silently asking for your permission. You nod, and he continues, "What Peter Lewis did to me was terrorizing. I always wonder whether I'm making the right decision or sending my agents straight to their deaths. I second guess. I'm scared that a part of him is still in my head, driving me to make a fatal mistake." Aaron starts playing with his food, poking an orange chicken with his chopsticks.

The memory brings a tangy taste to his tongue, and Aaron can't help but cringe. It's the first time he's ever talked about Peter Lewis. Granted, Aaron spoke about the event numerous times but never about how it made him feel. Never how it broke him.

Is it weird to say you're a little proud of Aaron?

Of course, you don't tell him that. Not out loud. You know he knows you're proud of him. And that's enough said.

With a few audible chews—caused by a carrot bit stuck between your teeth—that somehow doesn't piss Aaron off, you swallow the food and draw your lips into a thin line. You place the chopsticks on the side, wiping the rim of your mouth.

You know he's watching you. Anticipatingly waiting for a response for anything other than the silence he's accustomed to.

"Breathe," You gently instruct, clear enough for him to hear but not too loud for Aaron to jump in shock.

And he does.

His shoulder blades rise and fall into a soft rhythm. Aaron was holding his breath, and you knew. Of course, you knew.

"Do you know the purpose of defense mechanisms?" You quiz him, earning a nod from Aaron, and yet no following answer. "You were already mad at me even before we met. And for what? Nothing concrete, I'm sure."

Aaron was about to object, but you raised your hand to stop him, "I'm not trying to attack you. All I'm saying is that rather than being in denial, you displaced your frustration on someone else less threatening—me."

Silence.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm not done, shush!" You close your fist to mute him, cutting him off.

Aaron subtly rolls his eyes. He started doing so on his fifth visit when Aaron brought Jack and a few video games.

He told you that Jack's heard about your interest in a couple of games and wanted to play with you, but you know damn well Aaron bought the game for himself. Nonetheless, you entertained them by teaming up with Jack and obliterating Aaron. He vowed never to play against you ever again, at least not to your face.

"I would never know the pain and suffering that you went through. And somehow, even with that fact, a part of your life was in the palm of my hand. You had no control, but I did. So, instead of understanding the why, you hated the wrong who. And it's okay."

You take a sip from your straw, and a bubbly sensation fills you. Your tongue glides over your lips as you lean against the counter. "In short, for a man who's been through a lot, you know how to cope." A shrug ends your sentence, grabbing another bite of chow mein on your plate.

"Yeah, right," Aaron scoffs. The sincerity in your voice sparks something in him. It's giddy and tempting. But he can't possibly show the smile that's itching to spread his lips.

But his nonchalance may have triggered something in you because Aaron doesn't expect your next move. His neck felt like a snapped glow stick after you manually turned his head to face you—grabbing him by the space between his neck and chin. Aaron widens his eyes in the process.

"Listen here, you stubborn poopy head." You start, forehead creasing.

Aaron badly wanted to poke fun at your poor, intimidating skills, but he realized you didn't need any pointers just by the glare in your eyes.

"Peter Lewis got to your head, but that doesn't mean you were weak to let him. Yes, you fought through the influence of the drug heroically. Yes, you saved your agents and, most importantly, yourself. But it's still okay to be scared. It's okay that you feel broken. Who says broken things aren't great?"

It might be the sleep deprivation that's hitting Aaron, but he's very much enjoying your little fuse. How your words meant nothing like how you sound.

"That silver watch of yours—" you glance at his wrist "—has been broken for years, but I bet if you pawn it, it'll be more valuable than me. Antiques are expensive because they have unique histories. They survived beaten up, scratched, damaged, but still as beautiful as ever."

You're rambling, explaining more than you need to. Felt obligated to drill in his mind that despite the bad things, Aaron remains good. You're uncertain—clueless—as to why you felt the need to prove his praiseworthy, almost as if you're trying to convince yourself rather than him.

"From my observation, you're a sharper profiler despite all the things you went through. A part of you suffered and died in that house and many houses before. Of course, you'll be broken. You're a human being, Aaron. Act like one for Pete's sake!"

"I don't know whether you're being nice or mean." He chuckles with a mischievous grin, marveling at the way your eyes narrow as you look at him.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk." You tut, rolling your eyes.

For a moment, your senses heighten, and the simple brush of his hand against the skin over your wrist, as he takes your hold off him, sends billions of electricity throughout your body.

Aaron smiles—genuinely. "Thank you," He says softly, clearing his throat. His hand is still tight around your wrist. "You simply could've slammed the door the first time I knocked, but you always let me in. I appreciate you tolerating me."

You laugh, retracting your hands off his skin before you melt in his grasp. "I did not let you in the first time. You barged in like I'm some fugitive." You fix your posture on the stool beneath you, looking away.

His chuckle wakes the butterflies in your stomach, and you shove them right back down by stuffing your mouth with food.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the time, "Y-you better go home and change before your son wonders why his father smells like Chinese food for Sunday brunch. Jack's a big fan of good 'ole syrupy pancakes, there's a good one by the bureau's building. Better hurry up and pick him up." It's amazing how much you almost choked and stuttered as you spoke, hoping that Aaron wouldn't question the way your demeanor changed.

Aaron takes one last bite before towering next to you, "Let me clean up. It's the least I can do for imposing half of your weekend." He insists, swiping the styrofoam off your hands.

"Glad you got manners," You nod approvingly, earning another chuckle from him, making sure you gave him enough space to move around without brushing any part of your body, or you wouldn't know what the brewing feeling in your chest would make you do.

You mindlessly peer at Aaron's broad shoulders and dark hair that looks so soft you wonder if it'll melt with your touch. You blink, catching yourself mid-swoon.

After a few minutes, Aaron bids you goodbye and you wish him well, asking to relay a short message to Jack.

"I think you're only nice to me because of Jack," He jokes, pivoting on the heel of his shoes to get one last glimpse of you.

You give him a tight smile, raising your brows as you shrug.

One visit left.

Thursday, May 5, 12:51 PM

The news said Mr. Scratch escaped prison. Peter Lewis is out and about, no doubt, planning serious harm against Aaron. You turn the TV off. The image shrinks into a small diamond spark 'til it leaves a dark screen.

Ninety-eight beats per minute are your normal, but you surmise it's about a hundred and twelve at the moment as your mind anxiously ruminates your not-so-favorite-unofficial patient's well-being.

You glance at your phone, debating whether to give him a call, but even if you gain the guts to do so, you don't have his number. Who knew that refusing personal contacts would backfire? Aaron can knock anytime, you said. It doesn't matter whether he texts or calls before, you said.

Now, you have no means of contacting him, and you refuse to resort to his ways—going through his file like he went through yours.

It's a shitty feeling.

You keep your fingers as far away from your mouth as possible, afraid you'll bite your nails to its quick. If Aaron was with you, he'd say something annoyingly witty about how your anxiety's too easy to read, and you'd be bantering back a remark about his tells that not many notice but sure slightly pisses him off that you know him like the back of your hand.

Eyes dart in the direction of your entryway, waiting for any distinctive sound only Aaron makes whenever he closes the door like a teenager coming home past curfew.

"This is driving me crazy!" You ruffle your own hair, rubbing your face in frustration.

Tempted to wait outside your door for Aaron to arrive, in need of a company. A once-in-a-lifetime bone-crushing hug, given by yours truly. Or open up the 1997 Old Forester bourbon on top of your shelf that Aaron's been eyeing for a year.

You need to know if he's okay. You need to see that he's okay. Physically, mentally, and emotionally okay.

No one ever knocked.

Friday, November 18, 2:33 PM

"Aren't you curious?"

You look at Rossi, "About?" Your eyebrows pinch together. You backtrack the entire session in your mind, trying to remember if there is anything you are supposed to be curious about.

There's none.

Rossi turns to face you, a hand emerging out of his pocket. "You're not curious where he's been? I've known him for years, and I've never been more curious about his whereabouts 'til now." The hand waves around as each syllable flows, and slices the air every emphasis he makes like a conductor of his emotions.

He usually talks with his hand whenever he's emotionally troubled, attempting to make a point to himself, justifying that his feelings are reasonable.

David Rossi has been your patient for years; you can write any and everything about him into a best-selling book.

"You said it yourself, Dave," You shrugged with your arms. "You've known him for years. He and I saw each other a couple of times during our physician-patient interaction. Any interaction we had after is just the two of us drowning in silence."

Aaron never knocked that day.

He hasn't redeemed his last visit for the past five months. While it isn't the longest time he's never stopped by, you're bitter about it.

You couldn't sleep for a week after Peter Lewis escaped prison. You were afraid that Aaron's name would flash across any type of screen or mark a headline on every article and newspaper. You had to take anxiety medication to stop your body from trembling whenever the thought of him crossed your mind.

It was hell.

The utter hopelessness and lack of courage teared you apart. The strangeness. The nonexistence. You don't reckon a conversation with Aaron that involves you and him. Only you or him or whatever depressing topic comes up. You're not even sure if you had actual conversations. Always wallowing in silence while sipping either scotch or coffee.

But you two had a deal. No catch. Not even feelings. Developing one for Aaron did not cross your mind when you granted him the power to bother you at any running time.

All of it is to say you wish you had known Aaron's last visit was, in fact, the last.

Rossi squints, "You're telling me the quietness you shared didn't matter? That his company didn't benefit you the same way it did for him?" He stands tall, pleased with his words.

It did.

Of course, it did.

And you loved every second of it.

Even if you realize it too late.

But you won't say that to Rossi. Or to anyone ever.

A sigh drops your shoulders. You give him a blank stare, letting his question hover for a moment. "What do you want me to say?" You continue packing up your things on your desk, breaking eye contact.

If you knew David Rossi like the back of your hand, David Rossi knew you like every family of the victims he managed to save.

Worried.

Heartbroken.

Hurt.

Aaron never told Rossi about any interactions with you after he was released from your care. It's information Rossi's only ever heard a confirmation from you. But he knew it from the moment Aaron came to work after his first session with you and couldn't seem to get the specific idea of you out of his head.

"We're doing everything we can to catch Peter Lewis. Aaron will be back, I promise."

Pause.

You fight your every single sense to remain composed. Hearing Aaron's name instantly made you crumble. The sound of it hitting your chest with such force you had to bite the tissue behind your closed lip. You badly wanted—needed to cry and throw a tantrum.

The inner ends of your brows lift up as you nod, "Good for you... and for him. I'll see you in two weeks, Dave." You dismiss, walking around your desk to push him out of your office.

"Wait, wait! Just listen!" You retract your hands off his back and let him face you. "He's okay. He and Jack are safe somewhere I, unfortunately, don't know." He tries to meet your gaze—successful. "But! But that's a good thing. Not knowing where he is while in protective custody is good. Safe. I just thought you'd want to know."

You nod, "Certainly a good information, Dave. But not really necessary." Your tongue subtly swipes the bottom of your lips. "Aa—Agent Hotchner was a patient. Anything outside of that is not my business." Liar.

Rossi tucks his mouth into a thin line, nodding. "See you in two weeks, kid."

Tuesday, March 27, 6:12 PM

It's a nice Spring.

Your hair dances like the breeze is music as you trudge back to your apartment against the rush hour sidewalk traffic.

A year and a half.

You moved to a different place since then.

Moved on— from something that never existed, but really, your old complex just ran out of business.

You couldn't possibly move on, even if you wanted to.

"Good evening, Mrs. Willows," You smile at the old lady as she steps on the base of the stairs.

Mrs. Willows was old, close to ninety. And she's the best landlady you've ever met.

She smiles back, "Oh, just in time!" She waddles towards you, scraping the soles of her flats against the creaky floorboards.

"Did you need anything, Mrs—"

The old lady doesn't let you finish when she yanks you back up the stairs. Confusion fills you, but if you are being honest, you're more amazed by her speed. You didn't know it was possible for her to have that much energy.

"There's this handsome boy knocking at your door earlier. So, I let him in."

You dig your feet on one of the steps, halting her. "Mrs. Willows, you let a stranger in my house?" Your brows knit.

She looks at you, "Well, I figured it's one of your patients." She shrugs.

"I wasn't expecting any home visit today." You announce, peeking at the top of the stairs. "And I would've been home if there was…"

You excuse yourself, cautiously walking towards your door. The floor plan is different from your old apartment. But everything still felt the same.

The anxiety of a random stranger going through your place left you rushing to the living room. You don't exactly let any random patient inside your home. It's usually the profilers that seem to have a liking to you that lucked the privilege to visit your home at any given time.

"I'm sorry, but you're gonna have to set an appointment at the clinic—" you abruptly stop, blinking.

Aaron Hotchner.

He's sat on the armchair, only lifting his gaze after he'd closed the book you were reading before you decided to step out to run some errands.

He is wearing a navy blue quarter zip sweater and a white shirt, peeking from under. It's paired with loose-fitting gray casual pants. Like his closet had an upset stomach and threw up all over him.

The bags under his eyes are almost invisible. It used to be a tint of greenish purple. A proof of his late nights and stressful days. He's caught up with sleep for a while now.

His hair, a little longer than you're accustomed to, somehow made him look young and boyish. Probably why Mrs. Willows referred to him as a boy.

It's quite an image. Not one you'd expect to see upon opening your front door, but you mentally admit liking it.

He looks refreshing and well-rested.

"I heard you started your own practice?" He didn't mean to form it as a question, tongue-tied by nervousness. He flashes an awkward, subtle smile, dipping his hands into his pockets.

Your lashes flutter like butterflies gliding through the soft wind of Spring, except you're struggling to go against the breeze, winded by the city pollution.

"H-have you eaten?" You ask, snapping out of your trance as you head to the kitchen. Great. A question for a question. You're as nervous as he is, and you don't feel the need to hide it, though you aren't inclined to admit it.

He chuckles, and it still makes you melt after a year of trying to remember how it sounds, "That's your first question? Not 'What are you doing here?' or 'How did you find me?'" He follows you to the kitchen, it's a lot smaller than the one at your old place but you had a dinner table now, which still feels like an upgrade.

You turn and face him, leaning against the counter, "I'll just charge the entire team on their next visit. But I have a feeling David's the culprit." You blurt, earning raised brows from Aaron. "Oh? They didn't tell you? Your team unofficially designated me as their psychiatrist. I guess they also kept an important information from you." You twist on your feet to focus on the produce you carefully picked in hopes someone would join you for dinner.

But you didn't expect Aaron to be that person.

"Are you mad at me?"

"No!" You almost stumble as you spin back to face him. "I'm in no position to be mad. If a patient doesn't need my services, then I have no say." You lick the lower of your lip, biting it as soon as your tongue glides past. Heat pooling in the back of your eyes.

Aaron steps closer, "I didn't mean to—"

"I told you I'm not mad."

"You're really going to lie to an FBI profiler?"

"Former," You correct him, sniffing as you fight the tears from rolling down your cheeks. Your head's tilted up, almost facing the ceiling. Anger and frustration hammer into your chest.

He rolls his eyes, trying to catch yours. "Former, right." He parrots with a little more sarcasm. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you anything... I needed to make sure Jack's safe." He softly speaks, making sure you understand every syllable.

It's your turn to roll your eyes, blinking and letting a tear fall in the process. "You don't have to apologize for protecting your son. I'm not evil, Hotchner. I'll do the same thing for my family. I'm completely indifferent about your disappearance, and i-it's allergy season. I'm fine." You wipe the tear stain off your face.

"I missed hearing you say my name like it's a foul word." Aaron smiles so brightly you thought you were dead and some divine was just using his image to guide you across.

"Seriously? That's what you took from it?" You shake your head, turning your back to him once more. "I feel bad for Jack now that you're a full-time father."

Aaron laughs, and by definition. "Oh, he's had enough of me." His eyebrows jump on his forehead, drifting his eyes aside as if he's replaying every instance Jack's complained to him.

You laugh, too. A full hearty laugh that seems to source from the casualty between the two of you despite the irritation you felt.

It's still the same. The ease. The effortless flow and connection despite anxious nerves. It felt like talking to an old friend you've known longer than you are alive.

You nibble on your lips, "So? You're off protective custody, or do I have to call you Brad?" You quiz airily, back still facing him to hide any form of amusement that's forming on your facial features.

"Brad?" He scoffs, crossing his arms and knitting his brows. He sounds about offended as if you'd disrespected his entire bloodline.

"Yeah, you look like a Brad to me." You remember a story from the women in the BAU. One that they happily shared one evening at Rossi's before they all begged to be added to your list of patients once you start your private practice.

Aaron lets out another scoff. "No, I'm just Aaron. Aaron to everyone. Aaron to you." He grumbles something under his breath that you don't hear, but a clear indication of his disapproval regarding the name.

You stifle a giggle, "Well, just Aaron. Consider yourself lucky that I got a free slot. I would've been with a patient by now." You state.

"Am I really just a patient to you?" Aaron inquires from behind you. He attentively observes for any subtle movement or expression in your voice. There's a longing look in his eyes that you aren't aware of. A frown drops his lips as he adds, "I at least thought we were friends."

"Mm," You hum a chuckle, "More like my stalker. But sure, we'll go with yours... friends—"

He spins you by the waist, and you're not sure if your initial thought of dreaming is ending anytime soon as your body tenses under his hold.

A small yelp squeaks out of you, hands flying behind you on the counter as if to hold yourself up from your wobbly feet. And you're certain both of you can hear the loud pulse on your carotid.

"Hotchner, what the hell?!" You chastise, pulling back, but to no avail. Caged and pinned by his strength, and you're too baffled to react accordingly.

"I'd like to redeem my tenth visit." Aaron smiles from ear to ear. You never thought it possible for a stern-faced man to ever grin this wide. To ever be this bright and bubbly.

Aaron keeps the two of you that way for a few minutes. His face is a few inches from yours. You can hear him calculating in his head.

Only the busy street outside and one of your neighbor's loud TV fills the silence.

"Your pupils are dilated." Aaron grins mischievously. He further scans your face, the same way he did when he used to be your patient, reading you like it's his job to know every micro-movement and expression you make.

Your eyes widen, "Stop—" Your voice barely comes out, breath hitching halfway through your throat. "—profiling me." The space between you and his body feels suffocatingly good. It's making you dizzy.

"Usually, you're composed, but you can barely look me in the eyes." His hands remain on your hips, and every twitch of it makes you stiff like a statue. "Am I making you nervous?" He quips wittily.

Like a switch, your heart rate steadies, and his image becomes clear.

It's Aaron Hotchner.

Just Aaron, he said.

Warmth surges through your veins. You stare at the grin on his face.

Your head tilts, and you blink excruciatingly slow. "Are you trying to ask me out, Hotchner?" You mirror the trail of his eyes like a map.

Aaron beams like he'd won the lottery. Sending you impulsive thoughts such as kissing the smile off his face.

It's tempting and nauseating.

And if he doesn't stop, you just might.

"Ten."

Your eyebrows merge in confusion, "What?"

"Ten dates," He breathes as he looks you in the eye. "Let me take you out on ten dates. Then you can decide if I'm just one of your many stubborn patients or if I can be more. Let me make it up to you in ten dates. Please." He implores, hopeful, or rather knowing that you'd say yes.

And he'd be right.

All you want at that moment is to say yes.

But teasing him won't hurt, at least not you.

"And what's in it for me?" You try your best not to smile as you taunt him.

Aaron rolls his eyes, but his grin tugs the corner of his lips up. "You get unlimited access to me?"

"Wow, that's... very compelling." And you burst out laughing, folding on your stomach as you lean against his chest. You inhale, "Sorry, I expected better negotiation. Uh, any catch?" You say between chuckles.

He shakes his head, "Just one condition," He's chuckling now, too. Not immune from your contagious giggles. "I spend most of my days with you. Even if it's just sitting in silence. I want it to be with you." He lets go of one of your hips and tucks a strand behind your ear.

The giggles die down a bit, gazing at him with reverie. You nod after a few seconds, squeezing his arms. You lift yourself, tiptoeing, closing the gap.

You leave a quick, soft peck on his lips, smiling as you get back on your feet.

Aaron smiles, and you're as ecstatic as he is.

Another nod fills your chest with utter joy as you breathe in euphoria.

"Ten's a good number."

[tubbytarchia]

Etho doodles in which I let my inner dinosaur nerd take over 😔 and also have no idea how to shade

Get it cause he's old and washed up haha... ok but actual raptor Etho hybrid justification below cut

To be honest the main reason was because I really wanted a hybrid in the mix who wasn't some furry creature and a reptile or amphibian or smth instead. Etho still ended up feathered but whatever it's close enough! But for ACTUAL reasoning:

He does feel damn ancient, like an old deity of the mcyt space that no one can dislike. Dinosaurs are the same!! They're old but still thought of with great fascination and fondness, everyone loves dinosaurs...

Dinosaurs are ever so mysterious, as many advancements as we make there's still so much we don't know. Just as we know jackshit about mister Kakashi skin man. Also, there are so many incomplete skeletons out there. I didn't have a particular species in mind for Etho, because where's the mystery in that? He can be one of those 5% skeleton 95% speculation dinosaurs like this guy!! Missing jaw and all

"I'm a runner, not a protector" - so, a raptor, or more specifically the Dromaeosauridae family, which literally has "running/runner" in its name

But! I'm always a fan of stuff going against its nature, especially in this case! Etho states he's not a runner yet protects his allies rather fiercely even in total silence. Eg refusing to kill Cleo in SL or to give away Tango's location during the LimL manhunt, same for Grian in SL. He was a bit flaky in 3L I think? And he only started to have genuine care for allies in LL with Bdubs? Though he is still very much a runner in many cases like during the LL Wither fight. Research also strongly suggests that most if not all raptors were solitary hunters, and the way I see Etho (through my shamefully limited watchtime of his POVs...) he feels a lot like someone who ultimately only trusts himself at the start even if he's pleasant and allying with others, and doesn't seem to think he can carry his weight in groups though he doesn't voice this a lot. That's just how Etho is, very composed, but it feels like there's an insecurity there, showcased especially in SL but again I haven't seen almost any of his POVs in full so maybe I'm talking out of my ass!! Sorry ethogirls I'm only a sidegig ethogirl myself... But yeah tldr to me he gives off the vibe of an otherwise solitary animal struggling to find 100% sure footing in a pack. In whichever ways he does go against his nature, its not usually made a show of

At the mention of a raptor, a lot of people will probably think of the glamourized Jurassic Park Velociraptors. But those awesome guys from the movies are actually the size of chickens. In general though, dinosaurs tend to be a bit.. exaggerated in media, despite how inherently fascinating they already are. And I think it fits Etho because we all know how the Lifers seem to fear and mancrush on him when he's just some dork with perfect capability to become pathetic at a moment's notice. Still, he's a clearly skilled player and still respected without question Etho's not some killer machine like some people make dinosaurs out to be. He's just a fellow creature fulfilling his role in the ecosystem 👍

dinosaurs are cool

The hook-like sickle claws on the feet... something something fishing rod

I swear I'm not turning all my Lifers into hybrids I'm not!! Still plenty normal humans in the mix I swear....... But Etho is such a radical dude, I really wanted to do something more for him. The whole Kitsune thing that I often see associated with him is really cool. I don't actually know the reasoning for it but I assume something something naruto, but also, him being this ancient mythical cryptid who people know so little about, you know? It makes SO much sense. So anyway I turned him into a dinosaur instead rawr

As a herbivore advocate I also considered stuff like the triceratops (known for how they protect themselves and their own) but nah the raptor symbolism...